


cause the world might do me in

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a serious accident leaves David Cook hovering between life and death, and more than one lost soul could use a little guidance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for years. I figured posting the first chapter would inspire me to finish it, haha. Aspects of the plot are based (very) loosely on _The Wish List_ by Eoin Colfer (which is a wonderful book and a quick read, I highly recommend it!) ~~Also the first scene with Carly totally resembles a scene from the first episode of _Yu Yu Hakusho_ lolwhat.~~ Title from 'Ghost' by Mystery Skulls.
> 
> The rating will rise as we progress.

When he opened his eyes, all Cook saw was blue. His head was ringing, his fingers and toes numb. For a minute he thought he was suffering from a hangover – all of the symptoms were there: the nausea, the cotton-mouth, the jackhammer wreaking havoc in his brain, the whole ‘not knowing where the hell he was’ thing. 

"Ah, you're awake!"

Great, a voice he didn't recognize. That pointed favorably toward his whole hangover theory. Groaning, he turned his head toward the voice – foreign, though he couldn't place the accent right then. He hesitantly cracked open one eye and then the other once his head stopped swimming, though his vision wavered for a few sickening moments.

There was a woman smiling toothily at him, dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Her bare arms were covered with tattoos, swirls of color that arched and eddied across her skin like waves. Cook blamed his wonky vision, but he would swear that some of the ink was... moving? The woman’s eyes were a weirdly intense shade of green.

Oh, and she was floating. 

"What the hell did I drink last night?" he muttered, reaching with arms that felt like lead to scrub at his aching temples. 

The woman let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, love, I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea about what's going on here."

"Oh?" Why Cook was talking to an alcohol-induced hallucination, he had no idea. Might as well make the most of his drunken stupor before it all wore off and he woke up miserable and alone in his bunk on the bus. "Why don't you enlighten me, lady?"

"Carly," she supplied helpfully, grinning and crossing one long, leather-clad leg over the other. She seemed completely nonplussed about the whole floating thing, totally at ease to be hovering in the wide, empty expanse of blue sky around them, which. Huh. Cook looked down. Looked like he was floating too. Interesting.

"You see," the woman – Carly, apparently – went on, booted foot tapping against thin air. "You, Mr. David Roland Cook, are dead."

"Dead." Okay, this was turning out to be more morbid than his usual drunken fanfares, but he could roll with it. "Okay. How did that happen, exactly?"

Carly's grin widened. She pointed one slender finger straight down, the nail ruby red and sharp. "That's how."

Cook followed her finger down, down, down. He saw a stretch of road below, the distant red and blue flash of police lights, the familiar red and white color scheme of an ambulance, and tiny, indistinct figures running back and forth from what looked like an overturned...

It hit him like a punch to the gut then, half-formed images and sounds chasing each other rapid-fire through his brain – the squeal of brakes, the crunch of metal, a flash of white hot pain –

Cook swallowed, hard. "Is... is that... ?"

Carly nodded enthusiastically, looking pleased. "Yep."

"H-how... How did... ?"

"You crashed, love. These things do happen."

"But..." What about the guys? What did that even mean, that he was _dead_? What the _fuck_.

Carly snapped her fingers, a sleek, black tablet popping out of thin air and hovering in front of her face. Her nails skittered across the surface briefly before she turned the tablet around so that he could see the screen. His own face stared back at him, a row of text and figures on the left hand side and his photo on the other.

"David Roland Cook," Carly spoke, her voice matter-of-fact as if she were reciting information she had memorized. "Born December 20th, 1982. Thirty-one years of age. En route to a concert in Salt Lake City, Utah when an out of control motorist forced the driver of his tour bus to swerve off the road, flipping the vehicle and resulting in several grievous injuries to his person, including but not limited to: a broken left leg, fractured right wrist, three bruised ribs, and an assortment of cuts, scrapes, and bruises. Current status: critical. Receiving emergency medical care but outlook is grim - "

"Fucking wait a minute, I thought you said I was _dead_ – "

"Current status of his soul: up in the air, literally and figuratively, ha. In the process of, well, processing the situation, as it were. About to receive a once in a lifetime opportunity from yours truly, Reaper #003185: designation "Carly". Now then... "

With a flick of her wrist the tablet disappeared with a swift 'pop,' replaced by a long staff which Carly gripped and twirled, her movements practiced, deft fingers swift and sure. Cook opened his mouth to protest, or scream, or at the very least demand some goddamn _answers_ when Carly's frantic twirling came to an abrupt stop and Cook found himself face to face with the curved edge of a gleaming silver scythe, the sharpened point of the blade resting a bare inch from his nose.

His words pretty much dried up in his throat, after that.

"As I was saying," Carly grinned, removing her scythe from his personal space and leaning against it. "You're dead. Well, close enough, anyway. I was sent to fetch your soul and ferry it away to the afterlife."

"... My soul." 

"That's right! But! I'm feeling a little generous today – lucky you, love. I'm going to offer you a once in a lifetime opportunity." And she smiled, giddily, like this was the best thing she could offer him.

"What is this chance, you say?" she went on, despite the fact that he hadn't uttered a single word in response. "It's simple! Pretty much. I need you to perform... well, how should I put this – ” She tapped a ruby red nail against her chin. “A good deed, as it were. Specifically, I need _you_ to help _me_ give a little guidance to a lost soul."

Cook stared at her. “… Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” 

"Oh, it’s really quite simple,” Carly continued, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “Have a few heart to hearts with the little one, encourage him to take the right path, yada yada.”

“And I would do this… why?” More to the point, Cook thought, why the hell was he even _considering_ the idea?

Carly stared at him as if he were a complete dunce. With two brothers, a slew of bandmates, and a mother like Beth, Cook knew that look intimately. 

“Let me explain,” Carly said, snapping her fingers. In a puff of purple smoke a tiny replica of himself (holy shit, what was his life) appeared at her shoulder, grinning cheekily at them.

Carly twirled her finger. “This is you, before the accident. Whole and hale and hearty, a tiny little rock star on the road to success. This is you, after the accident, sans soul.” Another twirl and a ball of smoky blue light rose from replica Cook’s chest, hovering in the air above his head. The replica Cook closed his eyes and slumped to his knees. “At the moment,” Carly went on, “your body is down there, Earthbound, caught in between the throes of life and death. Your soul – “ She gestured to the blue sphere, which was zipping around replica Cook’s head. “ – is up here. In the middle.”

Cook stared at her blankly. “The middle of… what, exactly?”

“Think of it this way,” Carly said, pointing up. “Stairway to Heaven.” She pointed down. “Highway to Hell.” She pointed straight ahead. “You. Comprende?”

Right. That made sense. Okay. 

Cook took a long, careful breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. He wondered if ghosts could have panic attacks.

“Now, you’re not dead yet, just… close. That’s where I come in!” Carly twirled her scythe again. Cook was beginning to think she did that just to show off. “As a reaper, it’s my responsibility to determine the merit of your soul. To determine whether or not you deserve a second chance at life.”

“You do this for everyone or am I just lucky?” When in doubt, revert to sarcasm, that was Cook’s motto.

Carly grinned. “Trauma cases are my specialty,” she announced. “Instances where the soul is forcibly expelled from the vessel. I provide those souls with the same opportunity I’m providing you.”

“And to do this I have to… ?”

Carly’s smile was razor sharp. “That’s the spirit! Like I said before, all you have to do is provide a bit of guidance to a lost soul of my choosing. You do that, and your soul gets a boost of… well, we’ll call it ‘good moral karma.’” The blue orb above replica Cook’s head turned a bright, brilliant purple, zooming into the tiny copy’s chest. It woke up with a start, bouncing to its feet and grinning. “Powerful stuff. It’ll send you right back to your body, you’ll wake up, and that’s all she wrote!”

Cook rubbed his temples, his head pulsing weakly. Below him the road was a bustle of activity, a handful of ambulances racing away from the scene, curious bystanders slowing as they neared the accident site. “And you can’t just send me back to my body yourself?” he asked.

“No can do, love,” Carly said, her voice soft. 

He thought about the guys, wondered if they had made it out worse than him. If they were still okay. He thought about what his mom and Andrew would do once they heard about the accident. “What happens if I don’t do this?”

“You’ll either pass on, or you won’t. Your body will die either way, and you won’t get another chance.”

He remembered how it felt, being in the hospital, watching Adam and not being able to do anything. He remembered getting the news that he was gone, and how it had torn at his mom. He thought about all of the things that he hadn’t done yet.

“Show me what I have to do,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching POVs! The next chapter will be in Cook’s, the next Archie’s, and so on. I’m not entirely thrilled with this chapter, apologies if it’s too short/boring! Things will pick up in the next one, I promise :)

David sat on the temple steps, his chin tucked into his scarf to block out the worst of the wind. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, fingertips flushed an angry red from the cold.

The service had begun nearly half an hour ago; he’d listened to the opening prayer from his spot on the cold stone steps, bowing his head as he made his own entreaties to God and muttering an, “Amen,” that only he could hear afterwards. Father William’s sonorous voice breached even the temple’s heavy double doors, closed before service to keep out the late-autumn chill, and it echoed in David’s ears. The words were too faint to distinguish, a steady stream of sound rather than anything he could actually understand, but they carried a weight to them regardless, made his heart heavy with memory.

He was reminded of church back home, he and his siblings in their Sunday best, sitting prim and proper beside their parents as the preacher’s powerful voice washed over them all. David remembered the surety that would fill him as he listened to the father’s words, the connection he’d felt, to his family, the congregation, to God, how his heart would fill with promise, with _purpose_. 

It was just him, now, alone on the steps, shivering in the wind and the cold while inside he could hear the thrum of voices raised together in song. He’d always thought it was the sweetest sound in the world, the church choir crooning hymns, the way so many different voices could blend into one harmonious wall of sound. He used to be a part of that, once upon a time. Before. Even now he could feel it, how the music rose in him, the words resting on his tongue, waiting for him to open his mouth and let them out.

His hands were shaking. David knew it wasn’t from the cold, but he stuffed them into the pockets of his coat anyway. It was time to go.

An ambulance roared past him as he hit the sidewalk, followed by another and another. David watched with wide eyes until they turned the corner and were out of sight, the blare of their sirens lingering even after they were gone.

//

He took the stairs to his third-floor apartment rather than waiting on the elevator (which had the tendency to stall in cold weather). He passed Brooke on the stairs, the woman who lived in the apartment under his with her husband and young daughter. She was wrapped in a wool coat and knit cap, her long blonde hair curling softly around her shoulders, and she smiled when she saw him, her hand lifting in a half-wave. David smiled politely back.

Brooke had tried, back when he’d first moved in, to engage him in conversation, even to invite him over for dinner. He’d never actually taken her up on any of her offers, but that didn’t seem to deter her. There was a sort of motherly air about Brooke, and she seemed strangely in tune with what those around her were feeling. She seemed to pick up on it whenever David had had a particularly rough day; she never pried, but she sometimes left a wrapped plate of food (always delicious) at his door.

David had lived in the apartment complex for a year, yet Brooke was the only one of his neighbors whom he actually knew. He was a naturally private person, kept to himself for the most part. The only extended contact he had with anyone was with his coworkers, though he had no choice there, and his family, mostly through phone calls and the occasional skype chat with his siblings. 

His mother had called him just last night, like she always did. Every Saturday night like clockwork his cell would light up with her number; she’d ask him about his week, about work, his classes, and they would spend fifteen minutes speaking in circles until she’d grow quiet, asking him with that thread of hope in her voice, audible even from across phone lines, if he planned on going to service the next morning, when he was coming home for a visit. He’d never been able to give her the answers she wanted.

He shuffled out of his coat once he slipped inside his apartment, hanging it and his scarf on the peg by the door. He made a beeline for the kitchen, gathering what he’d need to make hot chocolate, and ducked into his bedroom while the milk was boiling on the stove to stow his shoes in the closet. 

Ten minutes later he was settled on the sofa in the living room, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of cocoa. His tiny television set was on, the volume low, more for background noise than out of any real desire on his part to watch anything. The local news station was on, the weatherman calling for snow later in the week; he’d have to layer up if he wanted to keep warm.

Usually Sundays were devoted to homework, studying for whatever tests he had coming up during the week, but he’d finished his English paper Friday night and his next test wasn’t scheduled for another week and a half.

David took a sip of his cocoa just to have something to do, though it lacked the appeal it had held when he’d walked in to the apartment half-frozen. He hated this feeling, the creeping sense of stagnation that would sneak up on him whenever he had nothing to do, nothing to occupy his mind. He found himself gazing restlessly around the apartment, half an ear tuned into the latest news report. He hated how alone he felt, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull out his phone and call anybody.

Flashing lights on screen caught his attention; David recognized the trail of ambulances he had seen earlier, the camera following them as they raced off into the distance, sirens blaring. The camera swerved to focus on a woman with a microphone, standing in front of an overturned bus, speaking rapidly as rescue workers scrambled around the scene of the wreck.

“ – caused by an out of control motorist. The driver of the bus was forced to swerve to avoid the oncoming vehicle, toppling the bus in the process. We’ve been told that the residents of the bus – “ A series of photos appeared on the screen and David sat up a little straighter. There was a group shot of five men on stage, as well as individual photos of each of them. “ – members of the popular band The Anthemic, as well as the driver of the bus, have been taken to the nearest hospital in varying states of medical distress. No further information on the condition of the band is available at this time.”

David pulled his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees. The name of the band wasn’t familiar, but then that wasn’t really unusual. These days he didn’t really keep up with stuff like that. With music. Still, he’d seen those ambulances. It was surreal to think that they’d come from what he was seeing on screen. The bus was completely flipped onto its side, smoke billowing from its undercarriage. Workers from the fire department were scrambling to put out the tiny licks of flame that were creeping up through the black, police officers and road workers closing off the lanes of traffic. Broken glass and bits of debris littered the highway.

Feeling a little sick, David reached for the remote, thumbing through channels until he landed on a cartoon of some sort. He didn’t bother trying to pay attention to it; he just wanted the soothing hum of voices in the background, didn’t matter what they were saying. 

He ended up lying across the couch after a few minutes, his mother’s homemade quilt, the one she’d tearfully pressed into his hands the day he’d left home, wrapped around him. It was still early, the afternoon sun slipping through the cracks in the blinds to trail lazily over the floor, but David rolled onto his side and closed his eyes against it. 

Before he fell asleep, he clasped his palms together beneath the quilt, murmuring a silent prayer for the men he’d seen on the news.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! We’re getting closer to the first meeting and all of the scenes I’m seriously excited about writing \O/ ~~Also Carly is the best, there is literally no contest.~~

“You can open your eyes, love. We’re here.”

Cook didn’t appreciate Carly’s flippant tone, knew without having to look that she was laughing at him. His stomach was roiling; how that was possible when he technically didn’t _have_ a physical body was beyond his ability to understand. 

Waiting a few tenuous moments until the nausea stopped swirling in his gut, Cook slowly cracked his eyes open, blinking in the low afternoon light. The sun was sinking below the horizon, the sky a riotous mix of orange and red and purple, and they were hovering over what looked to be a nondescript but well-kept apartment building.

“Where are we?” he croaked, wincing as he unclenched his fingers from Carly’s scythe. He’d been holding on to the staff for dear life, his feet hanging far too close to the wicked curve of the blade for his liking as Carly had shot off across the wide Utah sky, straddling the damn thing like a witch on her broomstick (an apt comparison, all things considered, but Cook had wisely kept that opinion to himself), while Cook alternated between holding on to Carly’s waist or the staff (or both, when the vertigo started getting to him). 

“In that building is the soul I’ve chosen for you,” Carly said, shooting him a glance over her shoulder. “It’ll be your job to offer help and guidance to it. Are you ready?”

_Do I have much of a choice?_ he thought, but didn’t have time to ask before they were off once again. 

They dove towards the roof of the apartment, Cook clenching his eyes shut and bracing himself for an impact that never came; instead he felt nothing but a vague sense of air rushing past his face, along with the shudder of Carly’s shoulders as she laughed.

“Ride’s over,” she quipped, amusement thick in her voice, right before she knocked him unceremoniously from his perch. He flailed his arms for a moment, stomach swooping as he fell, only to wind up hovering harmlessly in the air a few feet from the floor. As he opened his eyes Cook realized they were somehow inside the building, in a small but spacious apartment. A television was on, playing some cartoon with the volume low, and there was a person-sized lump on the sofa, covered with a quilt.

“Think _solid_ ,” Carly said, just as Cook was about to ask if this was the person he was supposed to be helping. He couldn’t make out what they looked like, other than a tuft of dark hair sticking out of the quilt.

“What?” he asked, blinking stupidly at her.

“Think _solid_ ,” she repeated, crossing one leg over the other. “Believe me, it will be helpful in the long run. Unless you’d like to spend all of your time hovering like that.”

Cook glanced at the ground, barely two feet below him, and thought _solid_.

He fell to the floor almost instantly, the carpet soft but firm beneath his shoes. “Huh.”

“See, it’s simple,” Carly crowed, grinning at him. “Though your physical body is separate from your soul at the moment, you’re still perfectly capable of interacting with the world around you – objects, people, you can exert a certain level of force onto all of it. You just have to concentrate. Do it enough and it’ll become second nature to you. Try sitting in that chair.” She gestured toward the squishy looking armchair by the sofa, and Cook passed a wary hand over the arm; his fingers went right through it.

“Just concentrate,” he heard Carly prompt, and so he did, picturing himself touching the chair, thinking _solid_. It took a few seconds – a few seconds in which he felt ridiculous – but his fingers finally pressed against the smooth fabric, sinking in as he exerted more pressure. Okay. He could work with that.

“Is there anything else I should know?” he asked, taking the time to glance at the sofa’s sole occupant. He assumed the person was male; the hair poking out from the quilt was short, though that didn’t automatically mean it belonged to a boy, and the feet sticking out of the other end were large. The apartment was furnished in varying shades of blue and brown, soft but with a distinct masculine edge. He noticed some framed photos on the small entertainment center pressed up against the opposite wall and moved closer to get a better look at them as Carly hovered in the background. 

“Now, even though you will be able to exert a certain amount of force on your environment,” she continued, a formal edge to her voice as if she were reading information off a cue card, “there are some limitations you should be aware of. You’ll be tethered to this soul, meaning you won’t be able to travel far beyond their reach. Also, no one else will be able to see or hear you, save them.” 

“Okay,” Cook muttered, distracted by the photo of five dark-haired youths, arms wrapped around each other and grinning at the camera. There were three girls and two boys, and he glanced between the latter, wondering which of them was currently sleeping just a few feet away. 

When Carly spoke next, her voice was grave, so far removed from how she’d been up until that point that Cook immediately stopped browsing through the photos and turned to look at her. 

“This won’t be easy, David. This is as much of a learning experience for you as it is for this soul. That’s why we Reapers are allowed to do this at all – it’s meant to be beneficial for everyone involved.”

Cook blew out a frustrated breath. “Look, I get it. I help this kid, I get my life back. I said I’d do it, and I will.”

Carly shot him an exasperated look. “It’s really not as simple as you’re making it sound.”

“Well, I don’t really have a choice, do I.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t bother to hide the bitter twist of his mouth when he said it. 

“No, you don’t,” Carly conceded. “This is an impossible task to ask of anyone, David, and I know you’re confused, and upset, and angry.” She raised a hand to ward off his comments, and Cook snapped his mouth shut with a scowl. “You need to understand that this isn’t a punishment; it’s an opportunity, not only for you but for this boy.” She waved her hand, red nails glinting, toward the lump on the sofa, and Cook stared at the tuft of dark hair sticking out of the heavy quilt with something akin to desperation.

“What am I supposed to do? I don’t even _know_ this kid, and my fucking life is supposed to depend on whether or not I can magically fix whatever it is that’s wrong with him?”

Carly’s expression turned pitying, like Cook just wasn’t getting it. “You’re not here to fix anything, David. He’s not broken. He’s _lost_. It’s your job to help him find his way back.”

Cook barely restrained himself from pulling his hair out in frustration. “Back to _what_? And how am I even supposed to do that?”

Carly smiled. There wasn’t anything particularly nice about it. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, and kicked off the floor with the heel of her boot. 

Cook took a frantic step toward her. “Wait, you’re not fucking leaving, are you?”

“This isn’t a two-person job, love. I’m just the messenger, nothing more. You’re on your own from here on out.”

“But – “

“I won’t be far, should you need help.” Carly wiggled her fingers at him in a wave, and with a “Good luck, rockstar!” she was off, shooting through the ceiling before Cook could even think to stop her, her throaty laughter ringing in his ears before fading into the emptiness of the silent apartment.

He stared after her for a few disbelieving seconds, part of him hoping she’d come back, most of him just wishing he would wake up from this fucking nightmare. He wondered if this was all some freaky hallucination brought on by alcohol and sleep deprivation, if maybe he’d hit his head somewhere between that last bar and the bus and would wake up in his bunk with Neal and Andy and the guys hovering over him, or even if he was asleep in a hospital bed, locked in some morphine-induced dream.

He looked down at himself, taking in his torn jeans and t-shirt, the scuffed boots on his feet. Everything _felt_ real – the scrape of fabric against his skin when he moved, the links of his necklaces against the back of his throat, and, once he reached up to feel his face, the hard plastic frames of his glasses against his fingertips (he remembered slipping them on at some point during the night, he just couldn’t remember _when_ ) – yet when he reached out to touch the armchair again his fingers slipped right through it. He also realized, belatedly, that he’d started hovering again. A passing thought found him flat on the floor once more, and he made a sound deep in his throat, helpless and desperate and completely unable to quench it.

Cook stared at the sofa, at the boy still fast asleep under the quilt, and reached out. He pictured it perfectly in his mind, him gripping the edge of the quilt, pulling it back, and within the next second he’d done just that, soft padded fabric under his fingertips and the boy’s face, slack with sleep, exposed to the still, silent air of the apartment.

He was young, that much was certain, his skin smooth and unblemished. There were lines, though, around his eyes and mouth, lines of stress and worry that shouldn’t be on anyone that looked that young. 

“He’s not broken,” Carly had said. “He’s _lost_. It’s your job to help him find his way back.” 

But _how_?

_You’re the only one who can see me_ , Cook thought, almost accusatory, remembering what else Carly had said. He hadn’t given much thought to it at the time, hadn’t felt the true weight of those words until just now; not being able to be seen or heard by anyone other than this boy, for however long it took to fix whatever was broken in this kid so Cook could go back to his own life. It felt like some sort of cruel joke. This entire situation felt like a cruel joke. The bus crash, Carly, this guardian angel bullshit he’d been forced into. 

It wasn’t fair. He should be with the rest of the band, should be playing to a sold out crowd in Salt Lake City and then heading on, moving forward onto the next tour stop, living his goddamn life. He shouldn’t be _here_.

Yet here he was, thanks to some twist of fate or some higher power’s sick sense of humor. Dave Cook, guardian angel. Bullshit. 

He glared at the apartment around him, glared at the framed photos on the wall, glared at the damn floor, and when that didn’t help, didn’t stave off the bruising force of his anger, he glared at the kid –

Only to find the kid staring back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve finally arrived at the first meeting!

David awoke to a dimly lit apartment, the last of the afternoon sunlight melting into early evening dusk. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wondering what time it was, and nearly groaned when he glanced at his watch. 7:33 p.m. He hadn’t meant to sleep so late, probably wouldn’t be able to sleep at all later thanks to his little impromptu nap. 

He lay still for a moment, just breathing. His stomach rumbled faintly – maybe he’d head to the café around the corner for something to eat. He could bring along the novel he was meant to start for his English class. Getting out of the apartment would be good for him – staying cooped up inside too often drove him a little stir crazy. 

_Yeah_ , he thought, opening his eyes. _A change of scenery would be –_

There was a man standing in his apartment.

David froze, not daring to move in case he attracted the stranger’s attention. He was standing just a few feet away, facing away from David, toward where his entertainment center was pressed against the wall. 

Thoughts started filtering into his head faster than he could keep up with them. How’d this guy even get _in_? David had locked the door, kept the windows latched. Was this guy trying to rob him? If he screamed for help would anyone even hear him? Oh gosh, what was he supposed to _do_? 

David stared at the sliver of space between the couch and his coffee table, then further on toward his front door. Could he make a run for it? David was fast, had always been a runner, he could make it –

But the man chose that moment to turn his head, a thunderous expression on his face. When he saw David looking back at him ( _dangit_ , he should have pretended to still be asleep!), his mouth went slack, his eyes wide.

David swallowed, whole body trembling as the man continued staring at him, doing nothing, saying nothing; he didn’t know whether to make a run for it now or move slowly, didn’t want to startle his intruder. That was a bad thing to do, right? The man didn’t look armed, but he was bigger than David. If he caught him, could David fight him off?

“…. Uh.” The utterance seemed almost too loud in the wake of their silent staring contest; David jumped at the sound of it, fisting handfuls of the quilt spread over his lap and bracing himself for a confrontation. None came. The man just kept staring at him, mouth opening and closing in a paroxysm of speech, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. 

“Who… who are you?” David didn’t know where the question came from, how he even managed to ask it around the lump of fear and panic in his throat. The man scratched the back of his head, running his hand through the unruly spikes of his hair and making it stick out even more. His lips were twisted in a grimace, like he wasn’t sure what to say. 

“My name’s David Cook,” he finally said, shuffling his feet. He hesitated for a moment, eyes darting from David’s face to the floor and back again before he sighed gustily. “Listen, man. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to hear me out, okay?” 

David gave him a look that spoke volumes about exactly how he felt about that suggestion. “What do you want?” he asked instead, grateful that his voice didn’t waver. It wouldn’t be good to show this guy just how terrified he really was. “I don’t have much,” he added, which was the truth. The only thing of any real value in the apartment was his keyboard, which was hidden (out of sight, out of mind) under his bed. 

The man – David Cook, apparently? Which, that actually sounded really familiar, and why had he told David his full name if he was trying to rob him? That seemed really, um, stupid – grimaced and took a small step back, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“I’m not trying to _rob_ you, man,” he said, brows furrowed over his glasses, and David shook his head, more confused now than when this whole conversation started. He didn’t feel as scared, at least, which was ridiculous because there was _a stranger in his apartment_ , but the guy didn’t seem hostile, wasn’t acting like he was about to attack David. Still, he kept his guard up, and, since the guy didn’t seem to be paying attention, slowly swung his legs over the couch until his feet touched the floor. Just in case.

“Then why are you in my apartment?” David asked, because that was still a vital piece of information he’d like to have. The stranger seemed even more unnerved by the question, though, his frown darkening, and that did absolutely nothing to set David at ease.

“Alright, this is going to sound really fucking crazy,” the other David – which was seriously weird, and starting to make David’s head hurt – started, “but I need you to listen and not freak out, because my life is pretty much on the line here.” He went on before David could even _think_ of a response to that. “I’m in a hospital. Or, my _body_ is, at any rate. I was in an accident. Not just me, my band – some asshole ran our bus off the road, and it flipped, and now I’m as good as dead in some hospital bed except for how I’m _here_ , too, and the only way for me to get back to my body is to help _you_ , so you have to believe me, okay? You have to believe what I’m saying and let me help you with whatever’s got you so out of whack and stop looking at me like I’m crazy.”

David blinked, his mouth hanging open a little, and stared at David Cook exactly like he’d just been told not to, and it was as he stared that he realized why the man’s name seemed so familiar, and why David felt like he’d seen him somewhere before. The auburn hair, the beard, that face… the glasses were a new feature, but David had seen it before.

“You’re the singer… “ he said, tilting his head. “The one on the news. Um. The Anthemic, that’s your band, isn’t it?”

David Cook’s entire countenance seemed to change at those words; his shoulders slumped with the release of some hidden tension, no longer so stiff, and for the first time his lips lifted into a smile rather than an uncomfortable grimace.

“Shit, yes,” he said, sounding relieved. “That’s me, yes. You must’ve… on the news, I guess? You saw me?” David nodded, and he huffed out a breath, his fingers catching on his belt loops. “So you get it, right? I have to figure out whatever’s wrong with you so I can get back to my life, my band, my music. My family’s probably worried sick over me, man. I have to get back.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” David said faintly, his eyes a little glazed. He’d been staring at David Cook for so long that the man’s appearance began to distort, turning fuzzy around the edges. 

“There has to be,” the singer continued, and now he was starting to look a little frustrated. “I don’t know what it is – she didn’t fucking bother to tell me – but I have to fix it, fix _you_ , so I can get out of here – “

David moved, which was weird, because his body felt really heavy, like his arms were made of lead, and he didn’t even recall thinking about moving? But he did. He grabbed the nearest thing at hand – his empty mug, as it turned out – and threw it with all his strength at the man –

Only to watch it sail harmlessly _through the man’s chest_ , exploding in a shower of shards as it hit the floor on the other side.

For a moment the entire apartment was silent, save for the muffled sound of the television droning on in the background. David stared at David Cook, David Cook stared at him, and then David stood up, his eyes kind of wide, and his stomach kind of hurting, like he’d eaten something bad or gone down a really steep hill.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. It didn’t matter that he had just gotten up from a nap, or that it’d be impossible for him to fall back asleep so soon after. Sleep was preferable to whatever was happening to him right now. Actually, he was probably _still_ asleep. That explained things. He was dreaming, and the only reason this guy was standing – or, hovering? David hadn’t even noticed it before, but David Cook’s boots were not even touching his floor, and that really just added credence to the whole ‘dream’ thing – in his living room was because he’d seen him on the news earlier. That was all.

He felt more than heard the other man – or, as David had already designated him, the figment of his imagination – move across the room after him, a strange disturbance of air that almost paused David in his tracks despite himself.

“Fucking wait a minute – “

He felt a hand clamp down around his wrist, the weight of rough fingers against his skin startling and _real_ , and then he felt the strangest sensation, like a _pull_ , and his body ran hot and cold all at once. He turned back just in time to see David Cook’s eyes widen in alarm before he suddenly toppled forward, moving toward David, like something was tugging him, and David looked down at his wrist, flinching back in alarm, because their skin was –

It was like they were connected, the other David’s fingers no longer wrapped around David’s wrist but sinking _in_ , and it wasn’t stopping, his entire hand was disappearing into David’s arm, and it didn’t even look real, _couldn’t_ be, except for how it just kept happening, and David felt like he was about to fall to the floor, faint and too hot, his vision fuzzy at the edges. 

“L-let me go,” he gasped, trying to yank his arm free, only to have the other man follow him, like he was stuck, like they really were connected, and David felt tears prickling his eyes at the dual sensation of hot and cold rushing through his body, the _wrongness_ of it. “Let me go!”

“I’m fucking _trying_ – ” David Cook looked just as terrified as David did, his eyes wide behind the lens of his glasses. “Just, hold on, I – “ He closed his eyes, breathing hard, and David didn’t know what he did, didn’t _care_ , but suddenly they weren’t connected anymore, and David was reeling backward, fumbling down the short hallway to his room and slamming the door, hoping against hope that, when he opened it again, David Cook wouldn’t be there waiting for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of a boring filler chapter, sorry! It’s happens to be the longest chapter to date as well (which is funny because barely anything happens, heeeeh.) Also, I refer to Archie as ‘the kid’ a lot in this chapter. I swear that’ll stop once Cook actually learns his name!

Cook stared at the closed bedroom door, silently reeling.

What the _fuck_ had just happened?

He stared at his hand, the phantom sensation of the boy’s wrist against his fingertips still lingering, along with the strange hot cold rush that had shot through him when they’d been connected.

That was the only word for it – connection. He’d never felt anything like it. One moment he had been reaching for the guy’s arm, not thinking much but _He can’t just **leave** , he has to **understand**_ , and then suddenly he’d been drawn forward, drawn _in_ , and it was the strangest fucking feeling he’d ever experienced, like someone had wrapped a fist around his heart and _yanked_ , and he’d been bombarded with all of these feelings, vague sensations and emotions that weren’t his own, pain and fear and something else, something he couldn’t put a name to, but it curled his insides into knots.

Trying to yank himself free had done nothing, and the kid’s panic was doing little but add to Cook’s own mounting hysteria. In a fit of desperation he’d closed his eyes and done the only thing his panicked mind could think of. 

_I want to let go_ , he’d thought, and just like that, he had.

Carly had told him nothing about… whatever that had been, never warned him against anything like it, and Cook was beginning to think that there was more that she hadn’t told him, probably for her own amusement rather than any sort of lack of foresight on her part. She had to have known that something like that would happen, right?

 _I won’t be far, should you need help_ , she’d said. Well, he needed some fucking help.

He called her name into the empty apartment, uncaring at the moment whether the kid could hear him or not (though he had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing the dark-haired youth again anytime soon no matter what he did.) It seemed pointless, not to mention a little ridiculous, but it wasn’t like she’d told him how to get in touch with her, so.

Save for the continued drone of the television set, however, nothing answered him. Cook fought against the urge to scream, or kick something, or follow the kid into his bedroom and talk some sense into him. He relentlessly squashed that last impulse, though, because he got it, okay, he understood that this entire situation was a lot to handle. If someone had suddenly appeared in his apartment spouting off about bus accidents and life and death situations and _oh yeah, my real body is in a hospital somewhere_ , he wouldn’t believe them either. In fact, he’d probably do exactly as the kid had done and make a run for it.

“Wouldn’t have thrown a fucking mug, though,” he grumbled, staring at the shards littering the carpeted floor. He hadn’t felt much of anything when it had flown through him, other than a weird displacement of air. Still hadn’t expected it, though. 

Thinking back, he knew he probably should have cooled it with the whole ‘fix you’ speech. He could tell it bugged the kid (and seriously, he was going to have to figure out a name for the guy soon), could tell without really knowing how that there was something… not inherently wrong, just _off_ about him. Their little moment of connection just seemed to confirm it. The things he’d felt… well, all of that fear and pain hadn’t been _Cook’s_.

Glancing around the apartment didn’t reveal much about his host other than that he was a student (if the backpack by the door was anything to go by) and, judging by the photos, he must have been from a pretty big family. There were a few personal touches here and there, but otherwise the apartment was almost meticulously tidy, a far cry from Cook’s own home and practically in another zip code from his living space on the bus.

If he wanted to know anything about this guy, Cook knew, he’d have to ask him himself. 

Remembering the look in the kid’s eyes as he’d stumbled away from him, though, Cook knew that was going to be easier said than done.

//

He didn’t sleep, not really. It was more like he closed his eyes, exhausted in a way he’d never felt before, emotionally drained if not physically tired, and dozed, trying not to think, focusing on little but the tick of the clock hanging on the wall and the occasional sound of cars passing by outside.

He’d tried to leave, once, had gotten as far as the elevators down the hall before he’d felt this strange tug in his chest; it’d only gotten worse the farther he went away from the apartment, until it was nearly painful in its intensity and he’d been forced to turn back. He’d tried to go out the way he’d come in as well, floating through the ceiling (ignoring the absolute fucking _weirdness_ of it all) as far as he possibly could, but had only made it to the roof, the night sky awash with stars above him, before the tugging sensation had flared up again and forced him back.

Cook had somehow hoped Carly had been bluffing when she’d told him he’d be tethered to the kid. The fact that she wasn’t, that he really was stuck here, was just another bar added to the cage he’d been thrust in. 

He didn’t have the patience for trying to settle on the couch or sit on the chair again, couldn’t make himself concentrate hard enough on keeping solid, and so his body hovered above the carpeted floor throughout the night.

Cook was still in that position, lounging against empty air, when the kid’s bedroom door creaked open the next morning. 

He watched dispassionately as the kid walked down the short hallway leading to the living room. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face a little drawn and tight like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and Cook should have felt sympathetic, should have tried to give the kid a wide berth, let him acclimate to Cook’s presence at the very least, but he couldn’t shake the restless, trapped feeling that had settled under his skin after his faux escape attempt the night before, felt like he could still feel that painful tugging sensation, calling him back to the kid’s apartment, making sure that he couldn’t _leave_.

“Rough night?” he asked, a little harshly, and crossed his arms over his chest as he settled closer to the floor, eyes narrowing as he received not only no response but no acknowledgement of any sort. 

He stared incredulously as the kid started puttering about in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice and popping bread into the toaster with a single-mindedness that seemed painfully out of place for each task. Not once did his eyes stray toward the living room.

It was obvious he was ignoring Cook, doing his level best to not even glance in Cook’s direction, even as he finished his hastily made breakfast and began pulling on his sneakers. It was only as he was wrapping a scarf around his neck and reaching for his backpack, clearly intent on going out, that Cook snapped out of his trance.

“Are you seriously going to ignore me?” he bit out, a little perversely satisfied by the flinch the sound of his voice drew from the kid. 

Cook expected a confrontation after that little outburst at the very least, especially as the guy turned around and came into the living room; the hand wrapped around the strap of his backpack was clenched so hard the knuckles shone white, and his lips were trembling a little, as if he were about to speak.

But no; all the kid did was grab the remote sitting on the table, his fingers shaking, and switch off the television set before turning on his heel and heading out the door. The click of the lock latching shut seemed inordinately loud in the fresh silence of the apartment.

Cook didn’t know whether to be angry about the continued snubbing or impressed at the kid’s resolve to pretend that Cook wasn’t even there. He had just settled on some strange mixture of the two when that familiar tugging sensation began to make itself known, a constricting tightness in his chest and gut that started off faint but quickly morphed into a sensation bordering on painful. The closer he drifted toward the front door, the less intense it got.

 _Damnit_. He really had no choice but to follow after the kid. 

It wasn’t difficult; he hadn’t gotten very far, was just about to head down the first flight of stairs when Cook caught up to him, his boots making no sound despite being firmly planted on the ground. He found that, just as Carly had said, it wasn’t too complicated once he got used to it, the whole ‘thinking solid’ thing, and at the very least it lent an air of normality to the whole situation. Maybe the kid would respond better to him if Cook wasn’t hovering in thin air.

At first he wasn’t sure if the kid realized he was being followed at all; he took the three flights of stairs to the ground floor with nary a twitch of his head or an errant glance over his shoulder to show that he was aware of his companion, but the closer Cook got, especially as they melded into the early morning crowd, he could tell the kid knew he was there. His steps would pick up speed once they hit a particularly congested area of the sidewalk, or he’d duck around people suddenly and bolt down a side-street.

Cook wanted to tell him that his efforts were basically pointless; even with the kid trying his best to lose him, he might as well have been a damned beacon, the way Cook could pick him out in a crowd with barely a glance. He kept his mouth shut, though, knowing the kid wasn’t going to listen to him, not yet, not until he realized he didn’t have a choice.

So Cook followed along behind him, being careful not to come into contact with any of the people they passed on the sidewalk, didn’t want a repeat of last night. It was strange, the way no one even glanced his way, and even if they did – even if they were staring straight at him – there was no sense of recognition in their eyes. 

They really couldn’t see him. He knew that, even if he were to scream, no one would hear him either, no one except the one person trying their hardest to get away from him.

It was devastating, if he thought about it for too long. If the kid didn’t work with him, didn’t _try_ , what then? Carly had told him, if he didn’t help the kid, he wouldn’t get another chance. His body, the one shuttled away to some hospital somewhere, would die. He’d be _dead_.

And this body? His soul, or whatever the fuck it was – what would happen to it? Would he be stuck here, like this? He tried to imagine that, being forced to haunt the kid’s footsteps forever. Jesus Christ, they’d both go crazy.

 _So figure something out_ , he told himself. Clearly trying to scare the kid wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and his earlier method of unloading everything at once hadn’t exactly worked out either. 

So, baby steps. Cook could do that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in the course of one afternoon. WHAT IS THIS MAGIC.

The bell above the door jingled merrily as David ducked into the bookstore, his hair sticking wetly to his forehead and rainwater soaking into the collar of his shirt. A storm had opened up on his way from campus and he’d forgotten (in his rush to get out of the apartment that morning) to grab an umbrella or to even attempt to pay attention to the weather forecast.

He waved a distracted greeting to the red-haired girl standing behind the counter as he moved through the narrow shelves toward the back of the store, pushing through a door marked _Employees Only_.

“David!” Skinny arms clamped themselves around David’s neck as soon as he entered the break room, the added weight against his chest nearly knocking him back into the door. The embrace (if it could be called that; it was really more of a flying tackle) lasted only a brief second before David found himself pushed back to arm’s length and being studied by an inquisitive pair of eyes. “You look… awful.”

David brushed away the hands on his shoulders, moving over to the row of lockers pressed against the back wall. “Thanks, Danny,” he muttered, shoving his backpack into the locker with his name on it with a little more force than necessary. He pulled out the dark green apron neatly folded at the bottom and slung it over his head, trying the strings in back into a knot, and clipped his name tag onto the breast pocket.

“Hey, seriously.” Danny leaned his shoulder against the locker beside David’s, both brows raised as he regarded the other boy. “You look like you haven’t slept. Like, at all. Rough weekend or something?”

A harsh bark of laughter echoed in the near silent break room. David hunched his shoulders; it hadn’t come from him.

“You could say that,” he said, and slammed his locker door shut to drown out any other unwelcome conversation.

//

With Allison and Danny manning the registers up front, David ended up shelving books in the back. He resolutely kept his eyes focused on the task at hand, kneeling on the floor and tucking books from the box at his side onto the bottom shelf labeled ‘Crime Novels.’

He could barely hear Allison and Danny talking up front; every now and then a burst of laughter would rise above the generic muzak piped from the speakers, or a chipper “Come again!” as a customer left the store, but other than that David was left with his own thoughts and the rustle of pages as he moved books about. 

“So, your name’s David, huh?”

David tensed, shoulders going tight underneath his checkered shirt, and paused for only a moment before digging back into the box for another book. He heard a sigh behind him, followed by the rustle of clothing as someone moved, and in his periphery (though he tried not to notice) he could see a pair of boots, the toes pointed outward as their owner stretched out their legs beside him.

“Look, kid. David. I know you’re freaked out. _I’m_ freaked out. But the silent treatment? Not actually helping.”

David continued shelving books, biting his bottom lip. _Just don’t pay attention_ , he told himself, his movements nearly mechanical as he continued slotting book after book into place, barely paying attention to the titles. _He’s not there. He’s **not**_.

“Clearly we got off on the wrong foot, and that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have dumped everything on you like I did. I was stupid.”

His fingers slipped on the spine of the next book he went to grab, a thick paperback by an author he didn’t recognize. He’d never really been a fan of crime books. He wondered if any of the customers even noticed them, buried on the bottom shelf like they were.

“I’m not here to mess up your life, or get in your way, and I’m not trying to scare you, either. I know that having me constantly hovering over your shoulder isn’t exactly… ideal, but – “

He’d skipped his second class. It had been too much, sitting there and trying to listen to the professor’s lecture, scribbling notes like everything was normal when he could still see _him_. No one else had noticed. No one else had even glanced in the direction of David’s new shadow. It was like they couldn’t _see_ , and David had felt like he was going crazy, had had to leave after his first class and spend the next hour and a half sitting on a bench in the park while he tried to get himself together, pressing his hands to his face and shutting out the world so he wouldn’t see a person standing beside him that no one else could.

It hadn’t worked. David had still felt like someone was with him, still felt like someone was watching him. 

He hadn’t wanted to come in to work at all, had been so tempted to just call in and sequester himself away in his apartment, slamming his bedroom door shut like he had last night, because at least then, at least when he was in his room, he had been _alone_.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, about last night. The things I said. I could tell it bothered you and I kept going anyway. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

David stared at the book in his hand, his palm clammy against its smooth cover. His lip hurt where he had been steadily digging his teeth into it, a sore stinging sensation that throbbed along with the beat of his heart. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” The words were so faint he barely recognized that he had been the one to say them. David swallowed, his throat dry, and slowly turned his head, glancing over his shoulder for the first time since waking up that morning. 

David Cook was sitting with his back against the opposite shelf, his legs stretched out in front of him and palms flat against the floor. It looked like he’d been rubbing the back of his head against the shelf, his hair mussed and sticking up in wayward spikes, and the eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were a little wide, no doubt in a state of shock now that David wasn’t actively ignoring him.

He looked… _real_. He wasn’t see-through or hovering off the ground or doing anything that would make him seem anything less than, well, normal, and for a moment David couldn’t equate the two in his mind, the man lounging against the book shelf with the one that had filled the edges of his vision all day, silent and constant and completely unnoticed by everyone save David.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he repeated, and held eye contact despite the fact that his hands were sweating, and his throat was dry, and every logical sense in his head was telling him that this entire situation couldn’t be possible.

“No one said you were?” 

Both of them jumped as Danny stuck his head into the narrow aisle, one finely arched eyebrow raised. “Also? Talking to yourself? Not a good sign, David. Allison’s heading out so I need some help up front.”

“Oh, um. Right. I’ll be right there.” His cheeks warm with embarrassment – how much had Danny heard? David didn’t need his coworkers to think he was stranger than they probably already did – David hurriedly shelved the last few remaining books, breaking the cardboard box down to be tossed into the recycle bin later, and headed toward the front.

He knew by the rustle of movement that David Cook was right behind him.

//

“I think we should talk nicknames.”

David glanced up from his sandwich, chewing slowly before he swallowed a mouthful of turkey and lettuce. Outside the storm had yet to abate, rainwater lashing against the windows and filling the apartment with noise.

“Um, okay?” he said, watching as David Cook – who was currently sitting at his kitchen table – cradled his chin in his palm, studying David with an intensity that was kind of uncomfortable considering David was, you know, eating. 

“The whole David-and-David thing is bound to be confusing, right?” he went on, titling his head. “And, let’s face it, our little situation is already confusing enough without adding more to it, so. How about you just call me Cook?” 

David nodded, biting into his sandwich just to give himself something to do other than stare at Dav – Cook. It was still… strange, to say the least, actually talking to the man instead of pretending like he didn’t exist. David still felt like he was living some weird fever dream or something, like he would wake up any second and find himself in his bed, his apartment empty of any mysterious guests. 

Cook’s lips twitched into a smile. “I _guess_ you can be David, at least until I come up with anything better.”

It was kind of obvious that Cook was trying to lighten the mood; his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, like he was unsure his humor would be appreciated. Considering, well, _everything_ , David couldn’t blame him.

He tried for a smile of his own, though, and Cook’s grin settled into something softer, more genuine. 

“Um,” David started, glancing down at his plate and back up to Cook. “Do you…? I mean, I can make something, if you’re, whatever, hungry or. Something.” 

Cook shrugged his shoulders, apparently nonplussed by David’s complete inability to get a full sentence out in his presence. “I’m not really hungry,” he said, pressing a hand to his stomach. “Come to think of it, I haven’t really felt hungry since this whole – “ He waved his hand. “ – _thing_ started. Guess I don’t need to eat?”

He phrased it like a question, and David felt a little better, a little more like they were on equal footing, knowing that Cook was just as confused about the whole situation as David was. 

“What _do_ you know? I mean, about what’s happened to you. And to me, I guess.” David wavered, his voice trailing off, and he shrugged a little helplessly. “I really don’t understand what’s supposed to happen here.”

Cook sighed, running a hand through his hair; he didn’t seem to notice that the action caused the strands in back to stick out even more haphazardly than ever, and David had to swallow against the sudden urge to laugh. 

“I really don’t know, man.” The expression on Cook’s face – a little defeated coupled with a healthy dose of confusion – made David’s mirth dry up in an instant. “I’m just as confused as you are, honestly. Our best bet is to just… work through it together, I guess? I’m here to help you, at any rate.” It didn’t escape David’s notice that Cook had said “help” instead of “fix” this time, and something in his chest – a knot that had settled there during their first conversation yesterday – slowly began to loosen.

“I’m… I’m not really sure how you can help me,” he confessed. “Or how much help I can be to you. I don’t really know what to do?”

“Hey,” Cook said, grinning again, and though David didn’t find anything remotely humorous about their circumstances, it was a little comforting that one of them could. “We’re in the same boat there. We’ll figure it out, okay? Think of it as a – “ He paused for a second, expression turning thoughtful, and with a wry chuckle finished with, “ – an opportunity, for the both of us.”

David paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “An opportunity for what?”

But all Cook did was shrug his shoulders and lean back in the chair, the front legs tipping off the floor. “Fuck if I know, David,” he said, and closed his eyes. “You’ll have to ask someone else about that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to start picking up soon, folks! But first, have some tentative bonding between the boys <3

Time, as it often did, moved on.

Cook spent his days following David around the city, sitting through his classes with him and wandering through the shelves during his shifts at the bookstore. He mostly fazed out during the lectures (he’d already done the whole college thing, thanks) but the bookstore quickly became a sort of haven to him. While David was stocking shelves or ringing up customers, Cook would delve into the shelves and lose himself for a few hours. So long as he chose a spot in the back away from prying eyes, he could settle against a wall or in one of the plush armchairs and read without worrying about anyone freaking out over seeing a book hovering in midair. 

As the days passed he found his concentration strengthening, just like Carly had said it would. He no longer had to focus so hard when he wanted to touch or move something, and he was no longer subject to infrequent lapses where he would suddenly start hovering without meaning to, which was awesome. He felt far more normal with his boots firmly planted on the ground.

He made sure never to inadvertently touch David again (or any of the people they passed throughout the day, for that matter). He didn’t know for certain, but Cook had a feeling that the Incident (as he had taken to calling it in his head) could have been avoided entirely had he simply concentrated a little harder on touching David, pictured it in his head, his fingers wrapped around the boy’s wrist, rather than just going for it, adrenaline and desperation fueling his movements. He’d been too keyed up to waste time on _thinking_ , though, on anything other than the frantic need to make David understand what he was trying to tell him, to not _leave_ , and maybe that had influenced the whole freaky connection thing.

Then again, it wasn’t like Cook really knew shit about it, and Carly hadn’t bothered to try and make an appearance – no matter how many times he called for her – so she could explain any of it to him.

The first few days after David had finally stopped ignoring him were a little tense, a little strained as they struggled to acclimate to each other’s presence. Whenever David saw him, whether it was in the morning after he left the confines of his bedroom or when he was out and about in the city, he always adopted the same startled expression, like he had forgotten that Cook was there. It was actually pretty amusing, the way he’d stop and stare, even in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, until Cook cleared his throat or some passerby bumped into him and got him moving again.

A week after he had shown up in David’s apartment, David had sat gingerly on the other end of the couch from him and fidgeted for a good fifteen minutes before finally making eye contact, saying, “I think we need some ground rules.”

Cook had simply raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Ground rules?”

“Yeah. Um. I don’t know how long you’ll be here, so. We should have some rules. About privacy? And other things.”

Cook had been kind of annoyed those first few days at how often David seemed to ramble – in class when the professor called on him, at work when he was ringing up a customer, even when he was actually holding a conversation with Cook, David never seemed to struggle for words. He didn’t often actively talk _to_ people on his own, rarely initiating a conversation, but if someone else did, he would talk their ear off, ‘hmm’ing and ‘um’ing in that breathy voice of his until the other person either politely excused themselves or interrupted him.

It was a little endearing, though, once you realized it was just because David loved interacting with people. It was also a little strange, too, because David seemed completely unaware of that fact. Cook had watched his daily interactions and noticed how he seemed to both shrink away from and gravitate towards people, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be close or not.

Cook had a feeling there was something in that, something that might help him figure out how to help David. He just wasn’t sure how.

“Okay,” he’d said after a moment, because David had started to look a little uneasy at Cook’s prolonged silence. “Lay ‘em on me.”

David’s ‘ground rules,’ as it turned out, hadn’t been anything outrageous, and had mostly dealt with the issue of privacy and Cook’s behavior while they were around other people.

“Could you just. Stay out of my bedroom? I know you said you couldn’t really go far from the apartment, and that’s fine if you stay out here, but – “

“No bedroom shenanigans,” Cook had cut in, grinning a little as David flushed (at his wording, no doubt, which was exactly why Cook had said it that way). “Got it.”

“Um, also,” David had continued, looking a little uncomfortable. “When we’re outside, or at least around people? Could you not – well, talk to me?” He’d shaken his head then, shooting a look at Cook’s face like he’d thought the rocker would take some sort of offense to it, but Cook had merely laughed a little, saying he understood. He doubted David had the capacity to truly offend _anyone_ , at least not intentionally. He seemed to be a genuinely _nice_ person, even with his strange behavior when it came to interacting with other people (and that little ‘throwing a mug at Cook’s chest’ thing back when they’d first met).

“I mean, you can _talk_ ,” David had continued. “Just. I can’t talk back? I’m pretty sure my classmates and coworkers think I’m weird enough without, you know, talking to thin air.”

That was another thing about David – he seemed genuinely oblivious to how other people felt about him. As far as Cook could see, David’s classmates seemed to like him. The red-haired girl from the bookstore (Allison, wasn’t it?) was in his Tuesday and Thursday class and always made a point to sit by him, chattering away about nonsensical things and trying to draw him into conversation. His coworkers all loved him, Cook could tell, from that flamboyant Danny kid to the older woman who owned the shop (Paula something) and especially the customers.

Not to mention David’s neighbor, Brooke. She had stopped by just the day before to invite David to dinner in her apartment, a blonde-haired little girl clinging to her jacket while she stood at the door. David had thanked her for the offer but declined, spouting off something about homework (which Cook knew he didn’t have) and Cook could tell by the look on Brooke’s face – a combination of motherly concern and resignation – that this exchange was a familiar one.

“You didn’t want to go?” he’d asked after she left, promising to bring David a plate of food later. 

David had shrugged his shoulders, not looking at Cook as he’d picked up a book from the coffee table and settled on the couch to read. “Homework,” he’d offered, gesturing toward the book, and Cook had let the subject drop despite the fact that he knew it was a piss poor excuse, and an obvious one at that. 

That had been the gist of David’s ground rules, and Cook had made sure to follow both of them in the intervening days, knowing that it would help in the long run if he gave David his space and acquiesced to his demands. David was completely out of his depth here, Cook knew that. Hell, Cook was, too, but he had a feeling that David needed to feel some sense of control over their situation if there was any chance of them finding a way out of this mess.

They settled into a sort of routine, after that, and slowly, David began to open up. It wasn’t anything major, nothing too deep or personal, just little things, but they began to develop a sort of camaraderie with each other, a shared sense of confusion over their situation that helped to form a sort of bond between the two of them. 

It allowed them to talk to each other, about little things. Family, favorite foods, favorite movies. David tended to open up when he was talking about things he loved (like his siblings, or Thai food, or amusingly enough, Disney movies) and he smiled a lot more when the conversation swayed towards those topics. 

It kind of transformed his whole face when he did that, made him seem younger, happier, highlighted the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes rather than the deep lines of stress that Cook sometimes noticed. He liked how it made him feel, getting David to smile like that, like Cook had done something monumental.

In return he’d told David about his own family, trying to ignore the pang in his chest as he thought about his mom and brother, wondering where they were and how they were dealing with everything. He talked about the guys, about the band, and about the places he’d been. David seemed to close off a little when Cook brought up his music, his lips settled in this weird unhappy line, and so Cook steered clear of that topic, falling back on his favorite corny jokes to lighten the mood (which worked rather spectacularly, as he’d known it would).

It felt like a step forward, them getting to know each other a little better, like they were finally moving in the right direction. 

They were in the same boat, after all; they might as well work together to get back to shore.

//

Another week went by before Cook broke one of David’s ground rules.

He waited until David was in the shower one night, and once the drumming of the water against the tiles could be heard, he entered David’s bedroom for the first time. He hadn’t exactly been invited – this space was definitively _David’s_ , and Cook had promised to stay out, but at that point he was running out of options. 

It didn’t feel right, him snooping around, peering into David’s closet and drawers. Made him feel like a creep, invading those spaces which should have been private, which _were_ private. If the tables were turned and someone were going through Cook’s things, for whatever reason, especially after they’d promised not to, he’d be pissed, not to mention skeeved as hell.

But he wasn’t going to figure out how to help David by knowing his favorite movie or how many siblings he had, or by tiptoeing around the issue like they seemed to be doing. Two weeks had already gone by and they weren’t really any closer to figuring out a solution than they had been when Cook first arrived. Two weeks his body had laid in that hospital, and his family… 

Logically Cook knew that his accident and resultant hospitalization had to have been in the news at some point. David had pretty much told him so, that first night, said he’d seen Cook on his television screen. Cook hadn’t given much thought to it, honestly. 

Last night, though, as David was flipping through channels, Cook had seen his name at the bottom of the screen. He’d told David to go back, heart in his throat, and they’d ended up watching the local news channel for nearly half an hour, Cook in a wide-eyed stupor and David totally silent on the couch beside him.

The woman on screen was standing in front of a hospital, and around her were people, a lot of them, bundled up in warm clothes to combat the cold air, some of them holding signs, and at the bottom of the screen ran the headline _Fans arrive en masse in support of singer David Cook_. 

He didn’t pay attention to what the reporter was saying, his eyes fixed on the screen, the fans gathered around, the bright lights in the hospital windows beyond them. Which one was his, he wondered. Was his mom and brother in there with him, wondering when he’d wake up? He wondered what the docs were telling them, if they were warning them not to get their hopes up, that there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up. 

He and David hadn’t spoken for the rest of the night, other than a short, hesitant goodnight on David’s part before he’d ducked into his room and quietly shut the door.

Cook had spent the entire night alternating between staring at the blank television screen, David’s bedroom door, and the dark night sky outside. 

It was because of that news broadcast that he was in David’s bedroom now, searching through his things, feeling like an asshole and yet unable to stop with those thoughts running through his head, picturing his family surrounding his hospital bed, wondering when he’d wake up, if he even would at all. 

So far, though, he had come up with nothing. There _had_ been some boxes in the closet, stuffed far in the back, covered with some folded blankets, but Cook hadn’t tried to look through them. He rationalized with himself that, so long as whatever he found was out in plain sight, he wasn’t _technically_ betraying David’s trust. It was a weak argument, but it kept the shame from building enough to put a stop to his search, so.

He stared at the spotless bedroom (Cook had yet to figure out how David kept his entire apartment so neat and tidy), and sighed. He’d looked everywhere, except…

Checking that the shower was still running, Cook knelt on the floor, peering underneath the dark recesses of the bed. There wasn’t much, a few dust bunnies and some old notebooks, and, as Cook’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized there was also a… box? A case? Or –

He reached underneath the bed, pulling the object toward him, and blinked as he saw the word _Yamaha_ printed along the side. A keyboard, then? 

It was strange that David had never mentioned anything about being able to play, which was the only reason Cook could think for the younger man to have a keyboard in the first place. It looked dusty as hell, though, a thick layer of the stuff built up along the length of the case. Despite the obvious signs of neglect, Cook could tell the instrument was an expensive one, which begged the question – why was it stuffed underneath the bed, out of sight?

The shower abruptly shutting off forced Cook to abandon his search, but he had a feeling he’d finally stumbled across something that he could use – to help David and, ultimately, to help himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna say this is all gonna blow up in your face, Cook, but...
> 
> Also, for any readers out there who are enjoying this story of mine, would you mind leaving a comment below and letting me know? Kudos are awesome, don't get me wrong, but I won't really know what I'm doing right/wrong unless someone lets me know. I'm always consciously trying not to make anything in this verse too confusing or out there, so some feedback would be fantastic. Thanks!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mama Lupe makes an appearance!

There was something different about Cook.

Not in his appearance or anything, though that had changed a little, too. He no longer wore those glasses he’d shown up in; they’d disappeared somewhere between the second and third week. When David had asked about it, Cook had just shrugged and said, “Noticed I didn’t need them. Or contacts, apparently. So I just, er, thought them away.” When David had just stared blankly at him, Cook had sighed and added, “Don’t ask.” 

His expression had turned a little devious then, and David still flushed if he thought about the way Cook had asked, “Why? You think I looked better with them or something?”

That was one thing that had changed about Cook – the way he acted, around David. There at the beginning, he’d been… not standoffish, exactly, but quiet, kind of withdrawn. They’d both been that way, actually, unsure of how to act around each other or even what to do when they were in the same room together. It was pretty much like having a roommate you’d never known you were getting, except Cook didn’t eat or sleep or need to do laundry. He was just kind of… there.

At first it had felt so intrusive. David would wake up in the morning thinking he was alone, like he was supposed to be, until he opened his bedroom door and found Cook hovering above the couch or sitting at the kitchen table, or even in the midst of walking through the wall or passing through the ceiling like it was totally normal and not jarring as heck. (The first time he had done that, just walked through a wall like it was nothing, David had sort of yelped – in public! – and Cook had spent the entire afternoon laughing at him for it.)

Things had changed after he had finally brought up the ground rules. David had fretted over them for _days_ , wanting to talk about the whole privacy issue but a little unsure how to go about it, and he felt weirdly rude about the whole thing, especially when he’d had to tell Cook not to talk to him in public – or at least not to expect a reply when he did – because he didn’t actually mind? That Cook tended to talk to him, um, kind of a lot, when they were out. 

He’d make all of these observations about the people around them, or the sights, and sometimes he’d talk about his friends, or his family, because something had reminded him of them, and it was nice, the way Cook opened up. It was clear he liked to talk, that he liked being around people, and David could see the performer in Cook, could see the way he probably thrived in the midst of a crowd, the center of attention up on some stage or another with the lights and the noise and yes, even the _music_ , all revolving around him.

Seeing that side of Cook made their whole situation seem even more bleak, and unfair, than it already was. Because Cook should be out there touring the country, _performing_ , not stuck following David around to class and work like he had nothing better to do.

And his _family_ – David could only imagine what they must have been going through. They didn’t have the benefit of knowing that Cook was… well, not okay, clearly, but still _there_ , still walking and talking and living, in a way, even if it wasn’t in the way they would want. 

David hadn’t told Cook – he doubted he ever would, actually – but he’d thought about going to the hospital. About seeing… well, whatever there was to see. It was too strange to think that Cook’s body was in some hospital bed when David could turn around and see him standing right beside him. 

But Cook’s family would be there, wouldn’t they? David was sure of that. And maybe they would feel better, or be able to get some sense of peace if David just explained that Cook was there, that he would be okay (even though David didn’t know that for sure, and he didn’t like to think on it for long; it was too overwhelming to think that Cook’s recovery depended on _David_ ). 

Or maybe they would stare at David like he was crazy, and really, how could he prove them wrong? He was the only one that could see Cook, or hear him, apparently, and honestly he was afraid that Cook’s bandmates – who were all kind of tall and tattooed and intimidating, he’d seen photos! – would chase him down if he even tried to explain what he was doing there, so.

Still, he wished there was _something_ he could do, because he’d seen Cook’s face during that news broadcast, how he’d looked sort of stunned and disbelieving at the crowd of fans camped out in front of the hospital, how his hand had trembled when he’d raised it to rub across his mouth.

(David had felt this really strong urge to touch Cook, then. Like, to put a hand on his shoulder or pat his back or something to provide a little comfort, because this whole situation was so hard on the both of them, and they hadn’t asked for it, and once David realized that he _couldn’t_ touch Cook, not unless he wanted a repeat of last time, he’d felt even worse about everything.)

After they’d talked about the ground rules, things had been better. They were able to talk more, able to open up more, and David was pleasantly surprised to discover that Cook was actually a really nice, welcoming person to be around. He was kind of goofy, and he told _awful_ jokes, and sometimes he would laugh at something David had said even though David had no idea what was so funny, seriously. It was nice, though. When Cook laughed, he did it with his entire body, his eyes crinkling and his shoulders shaking. And though it kind of made his stomach curl up hotly when he thought about it, David could admit that he _liked_ Cook’s laugh, liked the way it sounded and how happy Cook looked when he did it.

There were still moments of doubt, of course, and moments where they clashed, these pockets of time when their entire situation would sort of crash down onto them and send them to opposite sides of the apartment, Cook staring out the window or leaning against the railing on the fire escape while David sequestered himself in his bedroom, needing to be alone. 

They’d been able to figure out how to coexist, how to stay out of each other’s hair when they needed to, and how to get along, but they hadn’t figured out how to _help_ each other.

David liked to think that they were getting there, that it would happen in its own time, but then, what did he know, really? He felt completely out of his depth.

It didn’t help that he had taken to noticing certain things about Cook, things he didn’t _want_ to notice, like how Cook seemed to fill a room simply by being in it, his presence demanding attention even if he wasn’t doing anything to attract it, and how he had taken to studying David, all quiet and intense, like he knew something about David that David didn’t and was just waiting for David to get with the program, or worst of all, how Cook would lose himself and start humming along to some music only he could hear, or how he’d tap out a beat of melody in thin air whenever he thought David wouldn’t notice (because Cook _had_ noticed how David tensed up around music, of course he had), his expression far away and almost wistful, and David knew he was missing music, missing performing.

And it hit David sometimes, when he’d catch Cook humming or in the middle of the night when he was most vulnerable, lying in bed and thinking of everything that Cook was missing because he was stuck here with David, that Cook’s voice, his singing, would probably be _beautiful_.

//

He wasn’t expecting any visitors that Saturday; in fact, he was looking forward to spending the day outside, the air crisp and cool and perfect for a walk around the city. He kind of thought Cook would appreciate it, too? They’d spent the bulk of the past three weeks stuck in the apartment when David wasn’t in class or at work, and David knew he wasn’t the only one feeling a little stir crazy.

So he’d woken up that morning and gone for a run, the first time he’d done so since Cook had arrived, and it had felt freeing, in a way, his sneakers pounding against the sidewalk, the cool air rustling his hair and clothes and chilling the sweat beading along his hairline.

Cook hadn’t even tried to keep up appearances of normality, merely floating after David as he took to running along the familiar path around the neighborhood, and it had been nice, having someone along, even if they weren’t technically joining in on the whole running process.

After a quick shower David had been ready to head out again, wanting to ride the high of endorphins that running always brought about, and to maybe show Cook around the city, but his doorbell ringing had put a momentary halt to that plan.

He sucked in a breath once he glanced through the peephole and saw who was waiting on the other side, unlatching the lock and opening the door with what must have been a slack-jawed expression on his face for the way his mother looked at him.

“Mama!” He reached out to hug her, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. Her arms came up to wrap around him, and he felt suddenly overwhelmed; the last time he’d seen his mother had been over a month ago, the last time he’d gone home for a visit, and all of the phone calls in-between couldn’t compare to actually seeing her. He pulled back to look at her. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled. “What, a mother can’t stop by and visit her son?” she asked. She held him at arm’s length, studying him for a moment, and then she pressed a hand to his hair, her fingers running fondly through his curls like she always used to do when he was small. “It’s gotten longer,” she added, and David knew what she wasn’t saying. _You’ve been away for too long_.

“Sorry I haven’t come by,” he said softly, acutely aware that they had an audience – Cook was standing in his peripheral vision, trying and failing not to act like he wasn’t watching them. “Um, come in!” He stepped aside, letting his mother move past him into the apartment, and then shut the door.

“Am I interrupting you?” His mother gestured toward his coat and scarf, lying on the couch where he’d put them before his shower, and David hurriedly shook his head.

“No, no. I was just, um, going to go for a walk? Around the city.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun. Were you going to meet up with some friends?” His mother couldn’t disguise the hope in her voice, and David cringed a little. He knew she worried about him, knew she didn’t like that he spent so much time on his own.

“Um, actually,” he started, and then his eyes strayed toward Cook, who shrugged and made a ‘go on’ gesture. “I – yeah, I’m meeting a friend.”

His mother’s happy smile made him feel both better and worse. “That’s wonderful, David. Anyone I know?”

_Not unless you’re into rockstars_. “Um, no, no. It’s a new friend? We just met not too long ago. In town.” Sort of. “He’s nice, though! You’d like him.” He made sure not to look at Cook as he said that.

His mother beamed. “I’m so glad to hear that, mijo. I was, well… “

“Worried?” David offered, smiling as she nodded. “I know, Mama. But I’ve been okay. You know I’d tell you, if I wasn’t.”

“I know, but I’m your mother. I worry about all of my children, especially when they’re away from home.”

David didn’t bother to point out that Murray was less than half an hour’s drive from his apartment. He didn’t need to. It was his mother’s main point of contention whenever he didn’t go home to visit as often as he should. 

They settled on the sofa, his mother asking him about school, and how work was going, and David thought it eased her mind when he talked about Danny and Allison and all of his coworkers, even if he never actually said they hung out together. His mother liked to know that he wasn’t alone, that he was surrounded by people that, if not close to him, were at least capable of looking after him if need be, especially when she couldn’t. It was a little embarrassing – he was in his twenties, after all, and could look after himself just fine – but it was comforting, too, that his mother was always looking out for his well-being.

When she broached the topic of service, though, tentative and a little hopeful, David braced himself for the familiar sadness that the topic inevitably always brought to her face.

“I… haven’t gone, not yet,” he said, and focused on a point on the opposite wall so he wouldn’t have to see the way her face fell. “I will, I… will, just. I’m just not ready yet.”

He felt his mother’s hand slide over his own, and for a moment there was nothing but silence, save the continual bustle of life outside, cars and birds and – audible only to David’s ears – Cook breathing softly by the window. David could see him, faintly, in the reflection of the television screen, and he found himself focusing on that, Cook’s bare outline, as his mother continued to speak.

“I noticed your keyboard wasn’t set out. You said – “

“Mama,” he interrupted, his voice clipped in a way it never usually was with his mother. He cleared his throat, pressing his other hand on top of hers. “I’ll do it, okay? But it has to be in my own time. I – I can’t. I’m not ready.” 

He felt her fingers squeeze his, her quiet, “Alright, mijo. It’s okay,” more for her benefit than his own, he knew, because they both knew it wasn’t okay, but his mother needed some sort of reassurance that it would be. 

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. “How about we go and get some lunch, while you’re here? My treat?”

It was a sad attempt at distraction, maybe, but his mother acquiesced anyway, patting his hand once. 

“Let me just go and freshen up,” she said, her own voice wavering a little, and David waited until she had closed the bathroom door softly behind her to let out a shaky breath.

He felt more than heard Cook move toward him, watched his progress through the television screen as he came to a stop at the back of the sofa. David didn’t think Cook knew that he could see him, doubted Cook would be staring at him so obviously if he did. 

“You okay?” Cook’s voice was soft, low, almost like he thought David’s mother might hear him if he spoke any louder, and David felt something strange settle in his chest, something that made him feel both light and airy and weighed down, all at once. 

He nodded, unsure if he could speak, or what to say, and wiped a hand over his eyes quickly before his mother came back out, her own eyes a little red.

“Are you ready?” she asked, stopping by the kitchen table to pick up her purse and jacket, and David slipped into his own coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he followed his mother to the door.

Cook stayed by his side the entire time, close but not touching, and David didn’t bother to try and figure out why he appreciated the gesture as much as he did.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is… not good, but I know that I can’t look at it anymore or my eyeballs will explode. So apologies in advance for the subpar writing! :(

There were few things in life that really gave Cook joy nowadays. He couldn’t interact with anyone, couldn’t travel very far on his own, couldn’t even speak to anyone other than the young man walking by his side. He lived vicariously through David, which… wasn’t terribly exciting. There were only so many days he could follow David to class and the bookstore before they all started to blur together, after all. Cook was used to a hectic schedule – touring and interviews, press meetings and studio time and a whole host of other things in-between; the rigidity of a routine was new to him, and not exactly stimulating.

So there were few things nowadays that really stuck out to him, that broke the tediousness of the routine he and David had fallen in to. The face David had made when Danny had taken him aside and asked him out to a club? Was just about the most exciting (and ridiculous) thing he’d seen since arriving in Salt Lake. 

“It’s a group thing!” Danny had said, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. “Me, Allison, Ramiele, a few people from school. C’mon, David! You’d have fun!”

David’s response – which really hadn’t been a response at all so much as a mix of noncommittal sounds and vague hand gestures – hadn’t seemed to deter Danny at all; in fact, it had seemed to encourage the other boy even more. 

“Look,” he’d said. “It’s this weekend, Saturday night, okay? I’ll text you the details.”

Cook had not-so-silently sniggered at David’s flustered expression; clearly the guy was out of his depth when it came to dealing with people like Danny, who tended to steam-roll over a conversation no matter what you said (or, in this case, didn’t say.) David had shot him a sour look as soon as Danny’s back was turned, which had just set Cook off again, and his plaintive, “Stop _laughing_ , Cook,” had done nothing to help the situation at all.

David was content to ignore him now, though, his sneakers kicking up water as he walked. Rain had been pouring in steady sheets all day, the sky overcast and grey, but the gloomy weather and David’s pitiful attempt to pretend Cook didn’t exist didn’t deter Cook at all.

“You didn’t want to go?” he asked, trailing after the younger man. The rain was keeping the streets relatively deserted, so he didn’t have to worry so much about dodging out of the way of oncoming foot traffic, plus he could chatter away to his heart’s content as long as no one was around.

The way David’s lips turned down at the corners was all the answer Cook needed, but he kept at it anyway, not wanting to drop the subject quite so soon. He had a feeling it was important, strange as that seemed. “I mean, I know it’s probably not your scene – “ Understatement of the century, there. “ – but who knows, you might actually not have a bad time if you went.”

“I can’t – “ David started, his hands twisting the handle of his umbrella while he took a quick look around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Cook held back laughter, hiding it in the guise of a cough. Seriously, was this guy even real? He wondered, sometimes. “You don’t have to _do_ anything. It’s not like there’s an itinerary you have to follow. Just go and hang out with your friends for a couple of hours.”

Worry lines creased David’s forehead, and he’d pulled his bottom lip into his mouth to worry at it with his teeth. Cook fought against the sudden urge to press his thumbs to those lines and smooth them away, which… was a strange as fuck thought to have, honestly.

“What if they expect me to drink? Or _dance_? Oh gosh, no thanks.”

David looked so genuinely worried by the mere possibility of either activities that Cook didn’t even think about laughing. This was his chance, he knew, to coax David out of his shell a little, get him to realize that there were people out there that wanted to get to know him, that liked being around him. 

“First off, you don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. It’s not a law or anything. And if your friends want you to dance, well. So what?”

David stared at him blankly. “If you’d ever seen me dance, you wouldn’t be asking that question, Cook.”

That startled a laugh out of Cook that he couldn’t really contain, which seemed to happen a lot, actually, around David. He was funny without meaning to be, witty and sarcastic (and downright _sassy_ ) once you got to know him. He may have been quiet and a little withdrawn around new people, or even around the few people he considered his friends, but there was more to him than just that. 

“You’re a mystery, Archuleta, did you know that?” he said, and laughed anew at David’s confused expression.

//

David spent the rest of the afternoon camped out on the couch, his nose buried in a novel, and to keep himself occupied Cook had grabbed one of the books from David’s shelf, his back against the front of the sofa as he flipped through the pages.

They didn’t talk much, the only sound the rustling of clothes and pages turning, but the silence was comfortable, companionable, rather than the tense, awkward air their first couple of days together had been full of. 

It reminded Cook of nights on the bus, Neal and the guys all doing their own thing, none of them really interacting but together all the same, sharing space. It was nice, actually, and a little surprising, that he and David had grown comfortable enough around each other that they didn’t have to try and force conversation, and that the resulting silence was no less troubled for lack of any words to fill it. 

David yawned, rousing Cook from his thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the younger man stretched out along the length of the sofa, his socked feet resting behind Cook’s head. His eyelids were drooping as he continued to read and, figuring he would probably head to bed soon, Cook settled back into his book, resolved to spend the rest of the night finishing it.

When Cook looked again a few minutes later, David was fast asleep, one hand curled against his cheek and the other hanging off the side of the couch, his book sitting on the armrest. He was breathing softly, his face serene in slumber, and it struck Cook that this was the first time since the day he’d shown up in David’s apartment that he’d ever seen the young man sleep. Cook thought he knew why; it was the same reason David hadn’t wanted Cook to go into his bedroom (a pang of guilt shot through him as he recalled doing so anyway, even if at the moment he’d thought that he had no other choice). People were vulnerable in sleep. Unguarded. That was why David kept his bedroom door shut tight at night, kept that side of himself tucked neatly away. He needed those walls between himself and others in order to feel in control. 

The fact that he was letting Cook see him this way now, even if he hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep… Cook couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. That David trusted him, maybe? Or that he’d just gotten so used to Cook’s presence that it no longer even registered to him as invasive anymore. 

What did that make him then? A friend… or a fixture? Like a piece of furniture you weren’t quite sure about, that didn’t really fit in, not until you lived with it for a while and got used to it always being there.

It put a sour taste in Cook’s mouth, thinking of himself like that, thinking of _David_ thinking of him like that. They both hadn’t had a choice about ending up here, he knew that, and there at the beginning he’d resented the hell out of the entire situation, and yes, even David, even though he knew the kid wasn’t at fault.

But now… hell, he genuinely liked the guy. David was dorky and funny and so unbelievably guileless, the kind of person who was nice without even really thinking about it; Cook had seen him perform little acts of kindness all the time, seemingly without giving the matter any thought, from taking Allison’s shift at the bookstore the day her parents were in town or giving up his seat on the bus to the harried-looking young mother just the day before.

And the more Cook got to know him, the harder he wanted to try – to _help_ , and not just because his life depended on it. He felt like it had crept up on him without him realizing – somewhere in the past month helping David had stopped being a task he had to complete and become something he _wanted_ to do instead. 

But his life did depend on it; that was a truth he couldn’t even begin to dispute, because it stared him in the face every goddamn day. 

He’d gotten used to the way things were now, gotten used to sidestepping people in the street so he wouldn’t accidentally touch them, or keeping his mouth shut when they were in a crowd because he knew David couldn’t carry on a conversation with him around other people. He’d gotten used to being a veritable ghost; following David around felt normal, not being able to be seen or heard by anyone other than the young man asleep two feet away from him had become _routine_.

That scared the shit out of him. This _wasn’t_ normal, none of it was. His family was waiting for him, his band was waiting for him, his _music_ was waiting for him –

Something clicked in his brain. _Music_.

He glanced toward David’s bedroom door, which had been left ajar, and silently got to his feet. 

It didn’t take much effort to get everything together. He’d become a pro at handling objects nowadays, could move things around without a second thought once he got the idea into his head, and even the heavy case under David’s bed fit solidly into his arms once he pulled it free from its hiding spot.

Cook had been curious, at first, about the keyboard, thought it strange that such a fine, clearly expensive instrument should be left to gather dust and cobwebs underneath David’s bed. He’d known that there was something about it, something about the way it was kept out of sight that meant something important, needed further explanation. The conversation that David had had with his mother just seemed to prove Cook right.

Carly had told him (what felt like months ago, now) that David was lost. Cook had seen that in him, even on that first day, when he’d watched David sleep with those stress lines creasing his forehead and the sides of his mouth. There had always been something that David was hiding, from Cook, from his friends, from his neighbors, from everyone who might even try to dig too deep for David’s comfort.

And all of it, Cook was sure, centered around music. Whether David was lost without it, or lost _because_ of it, he couldn’t begin to guess, but he was certain of that much.

Either way, he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by doing nothing. It was time to take action. 

Music had been his way into this mess, in a way; it’d be his way out, too.

//

When David woke up a few hours later, moonlight was filtering softly through the windows. He yawned, stretching his body out along the couch, and slowly opened his eyes.

Cook stood off to the side, his body thrumming with a mix of adrenaline and apprehension, and watched as David stared confusedly at the coffee table, his mouth slack as he took in the keyboard laid out atop the surface.

Cook had tried his best to clear the instrument of any dust that had accumulated in the case, and carefully set it up on the table so that it would be the first thing David saw when he woke. He knew it would be a shock; god only knew how long it had been since David had even seen the thing, and it would be clear as soon as he laid eyes on the keyboard that Cook had broken one of his only ground rules, entering his bedroom without David’s permission.

Cook expected anger, or embarrassment, maybe. Some yelling, once the shock wore off. So he did the only thing he could think of to put off the inevitable – he talked.

“It’s a beautiful instrument,” he started, because it was, and he’d noticed how well-cared for it was once he’d taken care of the dust. It had been loved, once. “I know you’re mad, but I – I thought you could play, that we could – “ He trailed off, because David was just looking at the keyboard, his fingers wrapped around the sofa cushion, half-raised like he was about to get up. Cook realized he was _shaking_ , small tremors rocking through his frame as he stared at the instrument. He hadn’t even glanced in Cook’s direction yet.

“I know there’s something about music that scares you,” he said, something uneasy settling in his stomach as David continued to do his best impression of a statue. He kept going, though, kept talking, because he had a feeling that something awful would happen once he stopped. “I also know that, whatever it is, it shouldn’t keep you from enjoying something you love.” Because David _had_ to have loved music at some point, Cook was sure of that. “I – David, listen to me. I think if you played, it would help. I think – “

“Get out.”

The words were quiet, and hoarse. Cook almost didn’t catch them at all. David was still staring at the keyboard, but his knuckles shone a sharp, startling white around the sofa cushion.

Cook took a step forward, unsure if he’d heard right. “What? David, I didn’t – “

David turned to look at him then, and Cook stopped dead in his tracks, caught off guard by the younger man’s fiercely shining eyes, the _anger_ he could see swimming in their depths. 

“Get. Out.” David’s voice was reedy, his face red; he reached over to the end table, not even looking at what he was grabbing, and before Cook could do anything there was a book flying at his face.

It sailed through him, landing harmlessly on the floor behind him, but Cook felt as if he’d been struck head on anyway, staring wide-eyed as David grabbed at a picture frame next and hurled it in his direction, the glass shattering as it hit the floor.

“Get out, get out, _get out_ ,” David was screaming, tears streaming down his cheeks, throwing whatever he could reach – another book, the pillows on the sofa, the remote control. He wasn’t even trying to aim anymore, just tossing whatever was in reach, his chest heaving and his breaths coming too thick and fast. 

It was when David reached for the keyboard, letting out a sob that _tore_ at Cook, that he was even able to move. 

“David, stop!” He held his palms up in surrender, trying to get David to slow down, to breathe. “You’ll hurt yourself!” When David showed no signs of stopping, his fingers wrapping around the edge of the instrument, Cook did the only thing he could think of – he reached out, palms outstretched, thinking, _if I can just get him to stop_ … “Goddammit, _listen_ for a second,” he said, about to curl his fingers over David’s shoulders, unsure if there would be a repeat of the last time they’d touched but not knowing what else to do –

David jerked back, the keyboard falling to the table with a loud bang, and his eyes were huge, tears clinging to his lashes. God, the way he was looking at Cook, like he was terrified of him, forced Cook to stand back, put some distance between them.

“Don’t,” David was muttering, shaking his head. “Don’t _touch_ me, don’t do anything, don’t act like you know anything about me! I told you, I _told_ you, and you just – “ A sob tore from his throat, ugly and raw, and he curled in on himself, croaking out a harsh, “Just _leave_ ,” as he pressed his hands to his face.

Cook watched him, hesitant to do anything, feeling his insides roiling – with guilt, with helplessness – before he turned away and did as David had asked, the boy’s red, miserable face the last thing he saw before he slipped through the wall and out of the apartment.

//

He ended up on the roof, couldn’t go anywhere fucking else, and even then he could feel that _pull_ , tugging at him, calling him back.

Cook resisted it, burying his face in his hands, pressing his palms hard against his closed eyes as he stood there, breathing in and out, slow, deep inhalations in an attempt to get a fucking hold of himself. He kept replaying the encounter over and over in his head, and god, David’s _face_ , the way he’d looked at Cook –

David hadn’t just been angry, he’d been _scared_ , like he thought Cook was going to hurt him. Cook _had_ hurt him, only he hadn’t meant to, had never wanted to.

_What did you expect?_ he asked himself, teeth clenched against the growl that wanted to escape. Jesus Christ, he was so goddamn _stupid_. _You did the one thing you promised you wouldn’t, you **knew** it would upset him and you did it anyway_.

But he’d had to. He had kept telling himself that he’d had to, listing all of the reasons in his head, over and over – his family, his band, his _music_ – they were all waiting for him. He’d had a life before all of this, a career and loved ones and he had no idea how any of them were hanging on since his accident, had no way of knowing other than the news reports that would sometimes grace David’s television screen. He felt helpless, like everything he had tried, everything he could _think_ to try, had all just blown up in his face. 

It had been nearly a month since the accident, and Cook knew he couldn’t live like this anymore, that _David_ couldn’t live like this anymore.

And when had he started caring so damn much about _that_? When It came down to it he barely knew David, barely knew anything about him, and his main concern from the beginning had always only been to help David so he could ultimately help himself.

_That’s not why you did it, though, and you know it_. It had started out that way, his attempts to draw David out of his shell merely another step towards getting his life back; it was inconsequential to him what David was getting out of all this as long as it meant Cook found a way out of their situation. All he’d been thinking about was what was waiting for him, what he had to get back to.

So when had that changed? When had helping David become something he wasn’t being forced to do, but something he wanted to do?

Why was it that he’d felt so damn guilty, sneaking into David’s bedroom that first time? Why was it that his stomach roiled with shame now, and anger (at himself, mostly, and at the goddamn awful helplessness that was creeping up on him) when he remembered David’s face, the way he’d looked when he’d seen that keyboard, the way he’d folded in on himself, miserable and angry, because Cook had broken his trust.

And that was the true kick in the gut right there – David _trusted_ Cook, he realized that now, or at least he had before Cook had pulled this stupid stunt. Cook knew that was a big deal, that David didn’t put his trust in others easily, that somehow Cook had earned it without even really trying, and he should have _realized_ , should have listened to that part of himself that warned him not to be too hasty, to give David time instead of blindsiding him like he had, forcing him to confront something Cook knew he hadn’t been ready for.

But no, he’d been too busy thinking of himself, and now he was no closer to helping anyone than he had been when he’d first arrived at David’s door. 

He kicked at the ground, the toe of his boot sliding through the concrete like it wasn’t even there, and that just tore at him even more. The garbled “ _Fuck_!” he shouted into his hands left him breathless and weak, and he fell to the rooftop, staring blindly through the gaps in his fingers at the cracked concrete.

What a goddamn mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revelations! (Also there won’t be a new chapter for another week or so, as I’ll be in Utah - for DCook's show! - for spring break! :D)

The apartment was eerily quiet. 

David had taken his mother’s quilt from where it’d been draped over the sofa and thrown it over the coffee table, hiding the keyboard from sight, and had been sitting in silence ever since, his hands clasped between his knees, head bent so all he could see was the carpet between his feet.

The silence was getting to him; he didn’t want to hear the rasp of his own breath any more, stuttered on every exhalation like he was fighting back tears. The tracks on his cheeks had dried and he felt sticky and exhausted, a headache blooming between his eyes as he sat there, trying to understand what had just happened.

He was _angry_ , the sensation sharp and white-hot, angry that Cook had done exactly what David had asked him not to, angry that he’d actually believed he could trust Cook in the first place, angry that even looking at his keyboard still dredged up those old memories, everything that had happened still fresh and painful like it had been just yesterday that he –

_Just **stop**_ , he told himself, reaching blindly for the remote, needing something other than the sound of his breathing to fill the silence Cook had left in his wake – and he wasn’t thinking about the rocker anymore, he _wasn’t_ – but his hands came up empty. A quick glance around the living room reminded David that he’d thrown it, among other things, and he swiped a clammy palm over his face as he stood to go and retrieve it, side-stepping the shattered glass from the picture frame he’d tossed. He’d clean it up later, but right now –

Right now he just needed a distraction.

So he switched on the television, falling heavily into the armchair by the couch. He didn’t bother trying to search through any channels, didn’t care to, just wanted some background noise. He leaned his head back as a reporter on screen droned on about the weather for the week, closing his eyes and just listening to the cadence of the woman’s voice, focusing on that and nothing else.

“And now I’ll turn the mic over to Johnson for the local news,” she chirped, and a man’s voice overtook hers. David tuned out for a moment, pressing his fingertips to the tight skin along his temples, trying to soothe away the worst of the headache, so when the reporter mentioned Cook’s name, at first David didn’t notice.

“Nearly a month has passed since the automobile accident that left the singer in critical condition,” echoed from the screen, and David cracked open his eyes, staring at the man behind the news desk as he continued to relay the details of the accident, details that David had heard far too many times to count over the past few weeks. Superimposed in the top corner of the screen was a photo of Cook, his lips tilted into a smile, and David’s heart clenched in his chest, tight and uncomfortable, as he continued listening.

“Sources say the singer’s mother and brother have both been permanent fixtures at the local hospital, as well as a crowd of fans who have set seemingly set up camp in the hospital parking lot to show their support.” A video began playing where Cook’s photo had once been, showing a blonde woman and a man who could only have been Cook’s brother, he looked so much like him. They were walking towards the hospital entrance, the woman wearing dark shades and the man with his arm clenched tightly in hers, obviously aware of the reporters and photographers dogging their steps.

David leaned forward, watching the duo as they entered the sliding hospital doors and disappeared from sight. The brief glimpse he’d gotten of their faces was enough for him to see how exhausted they looked, grief weighing heavily on both of their shoulders, and for a moment he felt weirdly _guilty_ for the way he’d treated Cook, which didn’t make any sense at all. He _shouldn’t_ feel guilty; Cook had broken his trust, David had every right to be angry at him.

But –

_He did it because of them_ , some little part of his mind whispered, his eyes trained on the television screen. _His family doesn’t know he’s okay, the only thing they know is that he’s hurt, and he’s not waking up, and –_

David clenched his hands into fists, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to let go of his anger just yet. It was all he could see, though, Cook’s mother and brother crowded around his hospital bed, exhausted and losing hope as each week went by without any sign that Cook was going to wake up, and he thought, _what If that had been you?_

He thought about his parents and his siblings, how heartbroken they would be, and how he would do anything to get back to them, if he had the chance.

He thought about how desperate Cook must have been, to do what he’d done.

It wasn’t an excuse, and David was still hurt, and angry, but. He knew, somehow, that Cook wouldn’t intentionally hurt him. Cook… he was a good guy. If he’d known about, well, everything, he wouldn’t have pushed. 

He would probably even understand, if David had told him – why he was the way he was, why he wasn’t comfortable around music, why his keyboard had brought out such a visceral reaction in him. And David knew he couldn’t – he couldn’t just shut down anymore and expect everything to go smoothly, or for others to just accept his behavior and not try to figure out _why_. 

Cook hadn’t _known_. David focused on that, until his breath evened out, until his heart stopped racing, until he could unclench his fingers, shaking out the stiffness in his limbs, and stand on somewhat shaky legs. 

He knew where to go.

//

Puddles dotted the rooftop, remnants from the earlier downfall, and David’s sneakers threw up water droplets as he moved through them. He didn’t bother trying to conceal his footsteps; the clang of his shoes on the fire escape as he’d made his way up would have given him away already, anyway.

He found Cook sitting on the concrete, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out at the city. Night had fallen a while ago, and above them the stars shone brightly, little pinpricks of light that even the glow of the city did little to muffle. 

Cook didn’t move as David moved toward him, nor did he glance over when David curled his legs underneath him and sat, a little awkwardly, on the cold ground a short distance away. 

For a long while they just sat there, silent, and David took the moment to study Cook’s profile from the corner of his eye, taking in the downward curve of his mouth and the slump of his shoulders, the hot, cloudy gaze trained on the horizon.

It was clear that he’d have to be the one to break the silence, so David curled his fingers over his knees, picking at the fabric of his jeans, and opened his mouth.

“I grew up singing,” he started, and in his peripheral he saw Cook lift his head and glance at him. David didn’t dare turn to look at the man; he knew that if he did he’d never get the words out, and he needed to, now more than ever. “My whole family, we all – we all loved music, you know? And singing was, um, it was something I was really good at, and that I loved. I was even – when I was a kid I was even on _Star Search_.” 

He had to clear his throat then, blinking to stave off the burning sensation in his eyes. “I ended up in the hospital later on. There were, um, problems. With my throat. I couldn’t sing, I could barely talk. The doctors told me I had a paralyzed vocal cord.” He heard the shuffle of clothing as though Cook was moving toward him, but David kept his gaze focused on the faraway city lights. “They told me to rest, conserve my voice. I couldn’t talk for ages; I was paranoid that if I did it would just make everything worse. For a year I walked around with a notepad.” He laughed a little, though it was kind of strained. “It was torture, you know? Not that I couldn’t talk, but that I couldn’t _sing_. But, eventually, it paid off. My remaining cord grew stronger, my parents sent me to vocal coaches, I healed. I could sing again.”

This part was harder; this part would _always_ be hard, but David knew he had to keep going, that he couldn’t keep running from it. “When I was sixteen, I tried out for _American Idol_. I didn’t really think anything would come of it, you know? But it did. I sang _Waiting on the World to Change_ , by John Mayer? And I got in.” He still remembered how unreal everything had felt, how thrilled and unbelieving he’d been once he’d gotten his ticket to Hollywood. He’d felt like his entire life was opening up, the future bright and gleaming, and he hadn’t been able to stop smiling.

“The competition was crazy. It was all so big and new and just – everyone was so talented, you know? I was in the middle of all of these amazing people, and I remember thinking, ‘I’m never going to make it. There’s just no way.’ Not because I thought I wasn’t good enough, or that I couldn’t work hard or anything, just.” He shook his head, not sure how to explain it. “But, you know, I kept going through, kept making it to the next round, and it started being – I started thinking that I could do it, I could actually win. I _wanted_ to win. I felt like doing that would prove something, that singing was what I was meant to do for the rest of my life.”

He grew silent then, his throat dry. He’d never said this much to anyone, outside of his family, for years.

“What happened?” Cook’s voice was soft, and David shot him a quick glance, his throat working. It wasn’t as difficult to hold eye contact as he’d thought it would be, after talking about everything, but there was still the rest of it to get through. He swallowed roughly, and continued.

“Around the top 12, I started feeling like… like I had before. My throat started bothering me, my voice started to suffer. I was afraid to mention it to the Idol doctors, or my dad, so I just – I told myself that everything would be fine, that I was just tired, I just needed rest. I stopped talking, pretty much, only spoke when I really needed to. My dad could tell something was wrong, but I waved off his concerns, kept telling him I was okay. My voice wasn’t – whenever I practiced my songs I could tell that I didn’t sound right, but I still. I made myself keep going.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans, his palms clammy. He hated – _hated_ – thinking about this, let alone talking about it, but he was almost done, there was just a little more to get through and then he could finally stop.

“I made it to the top 10. I knew before performance night that I couldn’t ignore what was happening anymore. I promised myself that, after I sang, I’d tell my dad, and that actually made me feel better. But then – in the middle of my song, when I was up on stage… My voice cracked.”

Cook drew in a breath beside him, and David forced himself to keep going, the memories filling his head, the embarrassment and humiliation still as fresh as if it had just happened yesterday, the feeling of the hot stage lights baring down on him and the hush that had fallen over the crowd, the band still playing uselessly behind him. 

“I couldn’t finish the song. They got me off stage pretty quickly after that, and I finally told my dad everything, and then the Idol doctors, and, um, the prognosis wasn’t good. They told me, if I kept singing, that I’d risk losing my voice completely. So I had to stop. I left the competition, me and my dad went back home, I tried to move on. I could still play, I could still perform, my parents kept telling me that was enough, that I couldn’t have music in my life the way I wanted it but I could still do _something_. Only… “ He trailed off uselessly.

“It wasn’t enough,” Cook said, and David nodded jerkily. “Shit, David, I – “

“I tried,” David interrupted, not wanting to stop yet; he knew if he did he’d never finish. “I tried to play piano and be happy with just that, but after a while it just. It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stand to be around music. I couldn’t stand to _hear_ it, because it just reminded me of everything that I’d lost. I started snapping at my sisters for singing around the house, I became this angry, bitter person, and I hated it. I hated how it was affecting my family. So I finished high school, and as soon as I could, I moved to the city for college. My mother, she – she told me to take my keyboard, because she hoped, she _still_ hopes, that I’ll start playing again. I didn’t want to take it, but I knew that if I didn’t it would hurt her, and she’s done so much for me, my family has done so much for me, so I took it, and I stuffed it under my bed as soon as I got here so I wouldn’t have to look at it.”

“And I forced you to,” Cook said, his voice rough and almost angry, but David had a feeling it wasn’t aimed at him. “ _Fuck_. I really am a fucking idiot.”

“You didn’t know,” David said quietly, turning to look at him. Cook was leaning back on his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him; when he caught David’s eye he grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That doesn’t excuse what I did, David,” Cook said, and David didn’t say anything, because it was true. 

“I saw your family,” he said instead. “On television. They were going into the hospital, and they looked… I know why you did it, even if that doesn’t excuse it.”

Cook looked a little stunned, like he didn’t know what to say, but eventually he turned away, looking out at the city, and his voice was low when he said, “I’m worried about them. Worried about how they’re taking all this. They think I’m – Well. They don’t know any different, they don’t know I’m _here_. It doesn’t excuse what I did, though, and I’m so fucking sorry, David, for putting you through that. I should have just talked to you – “

“I wouldn’t have let you,” David said. “I was so – I don’t talk about it, not to anyone. Um, not until now, obviously.”

He caught Cook’s smile out of the corner of his eye, and something tight and aching unfurled in his chest. 

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate what that means,” Cook said, and David was glad for the darkness of the night sky, hoping it hid the flush he could feel stealing across his cheeks. “I was an idiot, and an asshole, and I’m sorry. Even if trying to talk about it with you wouldn’t have helped anything, I still should have found another way. And – “ He paused, his voice growing softer, and David wondered at the look on Cook’s face, sad and strangely wistful. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, too, what you had to go through.”

David had heard the same apology from so many different people over the years – his parents, his friends, people in his community. Usually it rankled him; he’d grown so tired of hearing it, because what was the point, really? But he knew that it was just what people said, that sometimes it was the only thing people _could_ say, and so he nodded his head in acknowledgment, saying nothing.

Silence fell between them then, comfortable instead of strained. David felt… freer, somehow, almost like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a weight he’d been carrying around for far too long. It was nice to finally let it go, if only for a moment, and it was nicer still to have someone to share that moment with. Maybe, he thought, that had been what he’d needed, someone who hadn’t been there, someone who hadn’t known beforehand about what he’d been through. 

He still felt hurt, and a little raw, like he’d reopened a wound that hadn’t yet properly healed, but also like he’d needed to do it, like it was the first step of many on the way to something better.

He glanced at the man beside him, taking in the expression on his face, no longer tense and unhappy but almost serene, and wished, suddenly, that they could touch, that he could lean his shoulder companionably against Cook’s, something to remind himself – to remind both of them – that they weren’t alone. 

But for now that wasn’t a possibility, so David settled for sliding closer, arms around his knees as he stared out at the sprawling city with Cook, and found that it was enough.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Between my trip to Utah and working on a larger project, I had to put this one on the backburner for a while. I have the next two chapters outlined, though, so it shouldn’t be too long between updates. Just a quick warning, though – it’ll be a while before I get back into the swing of updating weekly. I’ve got my entries for disneycookleta to finish up before the end of the month, but I’ll work on this when I have the time. Enjoy!

There was a nauseous mixture of fear and anxiety roiling in Cook’s gut as he stared at the hospital’s sliding glass doors. Beside him David looked just as nervous as Cook felt; perhaps even more so, if the way he was shredding his lower lip with his teeth was any indication. Granted, it was going to fall on him to get them to Cook’s hospital room, which would probably be no easy task, and they had yet to settle on anything to say to Cook’s family that wouldn’t make David seem absolutely batshit insane once they got there.

“Just breathe,” Cook said, narrowly squelching the urge to settle a calming hand on David’s shoulder. It seemed the longer he spent in David’s presence the more often he forgot that he couldn’t actually touch him, which made no sense for about a million different reasons that Cook didn’t bother trying to think about. “We’ll just… take it one step at a time. Okay?”

David swallowed audibly, nodding his head even as the fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie betrayed his anxiety. 

“Have you figured out what I’m supposed to say?” he mumbled, keeping his voice low even though the parking lot was mostly deserted. They’d made sure to arrive just an hour before the hospital closed to visitors, in the hopes that they could avoid the crowd of fans who still meandered around the entrance during the day. 

“Not exactly,” Cook answered. “Let’s just focus on actually _getting_ to my room for now.” That would be hard enough, and honestly Cook doubted they’d be very successful. Still, they had to try.

It had been David’s suggestion to pay a visit to the hospital; he’d brought it up a few days ago, not long after what Cook privately regarded as his absolute fuckup with the keyboard. Jesus, after David had told him about _Idol_ and the circumstances surrounding his removal from the show, Cook had felt like the world’s biggest asshole, and guilt had been sitting like a lead weight in the bottom of his stomach ever since. Knowing that David had forgiven him for it had simultaneously made Cook feel both better and worse about the whole thing, because god knows he didn’t deserve it, not after he’d forced David to confront something he clearly hadn’t been ready for.

It seemed as though the entire experience had been a turning point for them, though, in regards to both their relationship and David’s behavior.

Once they’d gone back into the apartment after their little rooftop tête-à-tête, David had tucked the keyboard back into its case with fingers that shook only a little. He hadn’t returned it to its previous spot under the bed as Cook had thought he would, though; he’d merely slid it into the gap between the couch and one of the end tables, and then taken to cleaning up the debris from the photo frame he’d tossed at Cook earlier.

Cook had rushed to help, gingerly picking up shards of glass alongside David, and while they’d worked David had continued to talk, not about _Idol_ , but about growing up in a house full of music. He talked about his mother, how she’d taught both his older sister and himself how to play the piano, and dance, and how they would often sing in the church choir on Sundays, little tidbits about his life growing up that Cook had never expected to hear, stories that Cook had slowly realized David had probably never told anyone else.

Things had been strained at first, both of them once again unsure how to act around one another or where they stood, but as David talked, as Cook _listened_ , the atmosphere had changed. The tension had bled slowly out of both of their shoulders, and, even though he knew David was still hurt, still angry, Cook also knew that he had been forgiven, that David willingly talking about music and his past was his way of accepting Cook’s apology.

He’d never taken the keyboard back out of its new resting place, and Cook had yet to broach the topic of music himself, but – things were changing, and they were changing for the better. 

Even so, when David had brought up the possibility of visiting the hospital, Cook hadn’t really known how to react.

“I don’t know if we’d even be able to get in,” David had said, fingers wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate as they sat together on the rooftop the other night; it had become a habit of theirs lately, if the weather permitted it and David didn’t have an early class, to spend an hour or two on the roof, whether in conversation or companionable silence. “But I thought that, maybe we should give it a shot anyway? I feel like, like your family should know you’re okay, even if, um, they don’t believe me when I tell them.”

And god, just the thought of seeing his family again was – Cook couldn’t even think about it for too long, or his throat would grow tight and his chest would constrict. The last time he’d spoken to his mother had been the night after his last show; he’d been on the bus heading out of Nebraska, and she’d called to check in, see how he was. He didn’t even remember what they’d talked about, only that too much time had passed since then.

And what about the guys? None of the news broadcasts mentioning the accident had said anything about them, and he had yet to actually see them, either going into or out of the hospital. He had no idea what he and David would do once they got there, or even if they’d be able to make it past the front desk, but thinking of his mother and brother and the rest of the Anthemic… He couldn’t just sit by and not try.

Standing there now, the hospital looked ten times more imposing than when he’d seen it through the television screen. Cook stared at the rows of windows along the front wall, some brightly lit and others darkened, and thought, _I’m in there, somewhere. Jesus_.

“Cook?” David was looking at him, shuffling his sneakers against the ground. “Are you ready?”

 _No_. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He lagged half a step behind David as the younger man headed toward the door, his mind racing, trying to come up with some believable excuse as to why they were there, something for David to say to his family that wouldn’t have them calling for the nearest authority figure or the psych ward. Jesus, what _could_ David say, though? _Your son’s not actually in a coma, ma’am, he’s right beside me and you just can’t see him_. Yeah, right.

“Cook?” David leaned in, stopping himself a few scant inches away from nudging Cook’s arm. Cook spared a second to appreciate that he wasn’t the only one who forgot the whole ‘not-touching’ thing. “Isn’t that – ?” David trailed off, and after a quick glance around the front desk area it was obvious what – or rather, _who_ – had distracted him.

“Neal,” he breathed, taking a shuffling step toward his guitarist; it _was_ him, there was no doubt about it. Even with his unshaven face and the slightly haggard look about his eyes, Cook would recognize him anywhere.

He was over by the row of vending machines, balancing two cups of what looked like coffee stacked on top of one another in one hand while he slotted coins into the machine with the other. 

“Should I – ?” David asked, his eyes darting to Neal, and Cook nodded dumbly. This was their chance, he knew it, but there was nothing but white noise in his head as they made their way past the lobby waiting room and toward the corner where Neal was just kneeling down to grab another steaming cup.

“Um, excuse me?” Cook felt like he was hearing David’s voice from far away, so focused on Neal’s face; the blond had turned at the sound of David’s voice, his brow raised as he stared down at him, and it was the same sardonic look Cook had been met with more than once, when he was doing something annoying or had just said something spectacularly stupid in Neal’s presence.

“What do you want, kid?” Cook recognized that tone of voice, too; it meant Neal wasn’t interested in playing nice, and if David didn’t make a case for himself – and fast – they were going to lose their chance.

“Just tell him you’re here to see me,” Cook whispered, forgetting for a moment that it didn’t actually matter how quiet he was – no one would hear him even if he shouted, anyway. 

“Um, I. I’m here to see Cook. Uh. David Cook?” Cook barely restrained himself from slapping a hand to his forehead. David had been jumpy enough before walking through the door; expecting him to talk even semi-coherently, to Neal of all people, was like expecting to suddenly wake up whole and healthy in his bunk. In other words – impossible (also: stupid). 

Neal’s lips turned down at the corners, his gaze suspicious and closed-off. “Listen, I don’t have time to bother with crazy fans, okay? So scram.” He turned his back on David and started toward the elevators, and Cook didn’t even have a second to protest before David was off, following after him. They went right by the front desk, but all the nurse on duty did was glance up and then turn her eyes back to her paperwork. 

“Wait!” David called, moving to intercept Neal, slotting himself between the blond and the elevator doors. Neal glanced from his full hands to David’s face, and Cook knew he was debating the merits of losing the caffeine in favor of moving David bodily (and possibly violently) out of the way.

“What the hell do you want?” he bit out instead, apparently more inclined to keep the coffee, and Cook resolved to fill David in on how lucky he was later, because small and harmless as he looked, Neal would have no qualms about hauling off and punching him in the face if he were pushed far enough.

“Listen, I’m not a, a fan? Um. This is going to sound really crazy, but I’m telling you the truth, so.” David drew in a deep breath, glanced at Cook (who was standing unresponsive and immobile behind Neal), and let out the rest of his words in a rush. “Cook is here. I mean, of course he’s here, in the hospital, but he’s also _here_ , with us. Um. Right behind you, actually. He’s been with me since his accident, in my apartment. He follows me around. He can’t, uh, he can’t _not_ do that, for some reason? Which is why I’m here, with him. He wanted to – well, we both wanted to – let his family know that he’s not… that he’s here.”

Neal’s eyebrows had risen steadily higher the longer David talked, but now they’d drawn down, furrowed; he looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be confused or pissed off.

“What the _fuck_ are you on?” he asked. When David failed to do anything but stare helplessly, Neal took a menacing step forward. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, other than make yourself look like some sort of psycho, but I really don’t have time to sit here and listen to you. _Move_.”

David’s wide-eyed stare as Neal made to move past him finally seemed to penetrate the fog that had settled over Cook’s mind; he made to move forward, put himself between David and Neal, and then remembered that would do fuck-all but make things worse.

“Tell him – “ He floundered for a moment, his mind frustratingly blank. “ _Shit_ , tell him – tell him you know about the night in Omaha!”

To his credit, David didn’t even bat an eye at the seemingly random demand. “Um. I know about the night in Omaha?” he said, which, okay, not the strongest delivery, but at least Neal wasn’t trying to shoulder past him anymore. 

“What’d you say?” 

Cook knew they didn’t have a lot of time here, and he related the rest as quickly as he could, ignoring David’s eyes, which were growing progressively wider as Cook talked.

“It was the night of your first show, apparently? And afterwards you all went to a bar and Cook got, um, really drunk and then… What? Oh, uh. Okay. He says he tried to kiss you? So.”

Cook kind of wished he had a camera, because he’d never seen the expression currently plastered across Neal’s face. The blond was staring at David, his face slack, looking… well, almost like he’d looked that night Cook had tried to kiss him (minus the resulting punch to the chin, hopefully). “I… You – how the fuck did you – ?” 

“He says he tried to kiss Andy and Kyle, too, if that makes you feel better? And Monty?” David’s brows furrowed. “Uh, you don’t still drink that much, do you, Cook?”

Cook waved his hand, mouthing ‘later,’ because Neal’s eyes had grown progressively wider in the past two seconds and it looked like his coffee cups were about to go tumbling to the floor.

David reached forward to snatch two of them just in time, Neal’s fingers going slack around the steaming styrofoam. “Oh! Are you alright… ?”

“Where the fuck did you hear that?” Neal asked quietly, and Cook knew this was the calm before the storm. He could see Neal’s free hand curling into a fist; he thought David was playing him somehow, and the last thing you wanted to do was try and jerk Neal around. “Who the _fuck_ told you that?”

Cook could tell that David was quickly losing whatever bravado he’d come into the hospital with. He’d taken a half-step back from Neal, his back pressed against the wall beside the elevators, clearly struggling for words. If Neal didn’t believe what David was trying to tell him (which seemed more and more likely, after that outburst) then there wasn’t much they could do. Cook wasn’t about to risk a physical confrontation with his bandmate if he could help it (he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Neal’s fist, and no matter how deceptively strong David might be – Cook had noticed the width of his shoulders, okay, and the lithe muscles in his arms – he’d crumple like a piece of wet paper if Neal put his hands on him.)

“David,” he hissed. “C’mon, let’s go. He’s not gonna – “

But David wasn’t listening to him. “Cook told me,” he said, his eyes on Neal. “Look, I’m not lying, and I’m not trying to trick you. He’s really here.”

Neal ran a hand through his hair, breathing harshly through his nose. He didn’t say anything for a long while, not until Cook was shuffling from foot to foot, nervous and on edge. David hadn’t moved an inch, though, was back to standing his ground, expression earnest, but firm. For some dumb reason, Cook felt proud of him.

“Who are you?” Neal’s voice was soft, and a little rough, but at least he wasn’t acting like he was about to sock David anymore. 

“My name’s David. David Archuleta. I’m a student at BYU.” David’s voice was steady; he hadn’t even stuttered. Seemed Neal’s momentary calm was instilling a sense of victory in him, as if they were actually getting somewhere.

And – fuck if Cook knew _how_ – it seemed they were. 

“You said that Dave is… “ Neal jerks his eyes to the side, his lips twisted, and David nods.

“Here. Yes.”

“I – How, exactly?”

David glanced at Cook, who shrugged helplessly. “I… I really don’t know, honestly? He just, um, showed up, about a month ago. And now he won’t leave.”

Cook spared David an affronted look, but was distracted by the bark of laughter that came from Neal. The blond looked just as surprised by the noise as they did.

“Shit, I must be losing my mind,” Cook heard him murmur, but any chance at further conversation was abruptly derailed by a shrill burst of noise from Neal’s pocket.

The blond swore and dug his fingers into his jeans, pulling out his cell and cutting the noise. “Hello,” he said, and the voice on the other end nearly sent Cook to his knees. 

It was faint, and garbled; he couldn’t tell what the person was saying. Still, he recognized the sound of his brother’s voice.

“I’m on my way, Andrew,” Neal was saying, and Cook’s heart leapt into his throat. His brother was _here_. “Just got caught up – yeah, okay.” He cut the call and tucked his phone back into his pocket, turning to David. “Look, I have to – that was Andrew, Dave’s – “

“Brother,” David helpfully supplied, not noticing – or simply choosing to ignore – the startled, slightly hysterical look on Neal’s face.

“… Right,” the blond said faintly, and then seemed to shake himself. “You’ll have to go. I’m not – he doesn’t need to deal with this right now. _I_ don’t think I can deal with this right now, but. Later. When Drew’s gone, I’ll – “ He trailed off, and a noticeable gleam came to his eyes. Cook doubted David even noticed. “I’ll get in touch with you.”

David nodded eagerly, handing over the (probably lukewarm, by now) coffee cups. “Oh, I don’t. I need to give you my number… ”

Neal shot him an unreadable look as he pressed the elevator call button. “Why don’t you just text me, and then I’ll have it.”

David blinked. “But I don’t have – “

The elevator doors dinged as they opened, and Neal shrugged his shoulders as he stepped inside. 

“If Dave’s really with you,” he said, “he’ll have it.” 

The doors slid shut, blocking the blond from view, and it took David a second to do anything other than stare at the blinking lights above the doors, steadily climbing from the first floor to the second, then third, then fourth.

“Well,” David eventually breathed, shooting a tremulous smile in Cook’s direction. “I’d count that as a success?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for the ending!

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Cook – “

“You already said yes,” came Cook’s response, drifting in lazily from the living room.

“But – “ David reached into his closet, rifling through collared shirts, plaid pullovers, and a random assortment of others. “What about you? They’ll be a lot of people there, right? What if someone runs into you, or – ?”

“David.” Even without seeing Cook’s expression David could tell the older man was growing exasperated. “Stop worrying about me. I know how to keep out of the way. Everything will be fine.”

“Yeah, but… “ He reached into his closet and took down a striped polo shirt, shaking his head almost immediately and tossing it on the bed to join the other rejects. “What if everyone starts drinking? Or, or they want me to dance, or – “

A sigh drifted in from the living room. “Remember what I said earlier? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you start feeling uncomfortable, just leave. Your friends will understand.”

David grumbled a little under his breath. “Easy for you to say,” he mumbled uncharitably, taking out two more shirts only to discard them both a few seconds later.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” David called. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he stared at the array of shirts spread out on his bed, feeling a little helpless. “What do you even _wear_ to a club?” he wondered aloud.

“Well, clothes are your best bet,” came Cook’s voice from the doorway, and David nearly jumped, not having noticed the rocker’s approach. He was leaning in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the threshold and his lips curled up into a grin.

“Ha ha,” David grumped, tacking on a _smart aleck_ in his head for good measure as he turned back to his closet. “You’re so helpful, Cook. Really.”

Cook stuck his tongue out at him, completely unrepentant, and David bit his lip to quench the urge to smile. 

“Can I look?” Cook asked, and David paused, looking at him. It didn’t escape his notice that Cook hadn’t once crossed the threshold, his boots merely toeing the line between the living room and David’s bedroom. 

“Um.” He bit his lip, looking between the clothes still hanging in his closet and scattered on his bed. It wasn’t like he knew what he was doing, so. “Could you?”

“Sure.” Cook uncrossed his arms and moved into the room, and David resisted the urge to move out of his way as Cook peered over his shoulder into the closet. The rocker was silent for a moment, contemplative. “You, uh, really have a thing for plaid, huh?” he finally said. David could tell Cook was trying not to laugh, and his shoulders slumped. 

“This is hopeless,” he said, moments away from just shutting the doors and telling Danny he couldn’t make it after all.

“Hey, c’mon, enough with that.” Cook reached over his shoulder, David stilling for half a second, expecting the brush of Cook’s sleeve against him even though he knew that wasn’t entirely possible. Cook must have noticed; he paused, mumbled a quick _sorry_ , and moved around David until they weren’t as close. David ignored the small pang of disappointment he felt at the movement. “How about this one?”

Cook pulled out a dark red t-shirt, the collar v-necked, and as David took it, said, “Wear that with those jeans and you’ll be fine.” He sounded absolutely sure of that fact, and so David took the shirt without protest, waiting until Cook was out of the room to change into it.

When he stepped out of his bedroom fifteen minutes later, he spread his arms out. “Well?” he asked, turning in a slow circle. “How do I look?”

The shirt was a little tighter than David was used to, showing a swathe of skin at his throat that left him feeling a little bare. It wasn’t constricting, though, and he had to admit, looking in the mirror at his reflection as he attempted to coax his hair into some semblance of control, he looked… not horrible. 

He figured Cook would tease him again for worrying so much about it, say “See? What’d I tell you?” or something of the sort, but instead the older man just… stared. It wasn’t disgust David was seeing on his face, of that much he was certain, so he didn’t think much of it until a minute passed, and then another. And another.

“Um, Cook?” he finally asked, smoothing his hands over the front of the shirt. He stared down at his jeans and converse, wondering if he’d been wrong and the combination looked stupid after all. “Is there something wrong… ?”

Cook seemed to shake himself, blinking a few times before he said, “Nah, David. You look… fine. Good, I mean.” David couldn’t help but notice that Cook’s voice was a little hoarse. He shrugged his shoulders, though, not bothering to question it. It was nearing eight o’clock already and he’d promised to meet Danny and the others around eight fifteen, so he really didn’t have time to change again, anyway. 

“Okay,” he said, reaching for the jacket he’d left slumped over the couch. “Are you ready?”

That seemed to break Cook out of whatever weird trance he’d fallen into, his lips curling into the teasing grin that David was so familiar with. “Are _you_ ready? You know I’m not gonna be able to keep the ladies off of you, right?”

David sighed gustily as he slipped into his jacket, shaking his head. “Oh gosh, Cook. You know no one’s going to – um.”

“Take advantage of you? Corrupt your innocence? Get all up on you? I can keep going, seriously.”

David shuddered even as he opened his front door. “Please don’t.”

//

The club wasn’t as bad as he’d figured it would be. David cringed a little as he realized he’d basically been imagining some derelict place of sin as their destination for the night. It was nestled downtown in a spot David wasn’t terribly familiar with, but Danny seemed to know where everything was; he kept pointing at the various bars and clubs they passed on the street, relating their pros and cons, which ones had the best drinks and “the best company!” Whatever that meant.

Danny had invited a few girls from school along with them. Along with Allison and Danny’s friend Ramiele, who David recognized simply because she spent so much time at the bookstore during Danny’s shifts, there was also dark-haired Selena, Miley, who had a shock of white-blonde hair cropped short so that it barely brushed her ears, and Jordin, tall and long-haired, and who David vaguely recognized from his Econ class.

He found himself falling into step with her as they walked to the club, after Cook had surreptitiously waved him forward, whispering, “Go on. They won’t bite.”

Conversation flowed easily between them, thankfully, and David found himself relaxing even as they neared their destination. Maybe the night wouldn’t end on a sour note after all (which he’d half been dreading from the moment he texted Danny and told him he’d come).

After he’d been carded (and suffered through the suspicious looks from the bouncer out front _and_ the guy at the door; seriously, he couldn’t help it that he still looked like a teenager!) and followed the others into the club, they made their way to one of the tables set up on the side, away from the hectic press of people on what must have been the dance floor. 

Cook disappeared from his side almost immediately, a brief, “Knock ‘em dead!” the only warning David had before he was left on his own. He tried not to panic or do anything else that would draw attention to himself (like calling for Cook to come back, _please_ ); there really wasn’t anything Cook could do even if something _did_ happen, he knew, and it was better if the rocker stayed out of the way, anyway. 

“Drinks!” Danny called almost as soon as they’d taken their seats, and shot David such a look of sad-eyed disappointment when he only ordered a water that David almost felt bad. Almost. He took a sip from Danny’s glass – some blue green concoction that didn’t smell too strongly of alcohol – to appease him, though, which seemed to do the trick.

At least until Danny and Ramiele started heading for the dance floor.

“C’mon, David!” Danny wheedled, giving David his best attempt at the patented puppy eyes; even his lip was trembling. 

David shook his head. “Danny, really – You go on ahead. I’ll watch!”

“Watching’s no fun!” Danny returned, but he left readily enough after Ramiele grabbed his arm, Selena and Miley following soon after. David watched them disappear into the steadily growing crowd of people on the dance floor. Overhead, some generic techno beat began filtering through the club’s speakers. 

“You’re not going?” he asked Jordin, who was still sitting at the table nursing her drink. 

She grinned and chirped, “Not without you!” Before he could protest she had set her drink aside and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, gently tugging him forward. “C’mon, David,” she continued; her smile was bright and admittedly kind of infectious, and David found himself returning it despite the butterflies bursting to life in the pit of his stomach. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done, huh?”

And okay, just the thought of dancing (in public!) made all of the nervous energy David had been hoarding come surging back to the forefront of his mind, but he resolutely pushed it down. He’d told Cook he’d try, right? And it’d be rude of him, right, to just sit on the sidelines while everyone else had fun? So. 

It was a little claustrophobic once they made their way out to the dance floor; David stuck close to Jordin’s side so he wouldn’t get swept up in the shuffle of so many people moving so closely together. Strobe lights made alternating patterns on the floor and on the crowd of men and women clustered together, red and blue and green illuminating skin and clothing alike in bright flashes of color. 

Danny, Ramiele, and Allison were dancing in a group, Miley and Selena on the fringes, and it was easier than David had thought it would be for him and Jordin to mesh with them. Danny immediately grabbed hold of his arm, his happy shriek of, “David!!” loud enough to be heard even over the heavy techno beat shaking the dance floor.

David didn’t bother to respond, just smiled and laughed, because Danny’s excitement was infectious and the happiness on his coworker’s face just served to drive home the fact that Danny _was_ actually his friend; he’d invited David along because he wanted him to have a good time, wanted him to loosen up a little. And maybe that’s what he needed, to let go for a while, to forget his anxieties for the space of this one night.

So, even though he felt a little ridiculous, and he really didn’t know what to do with his arms or his hips or anything else, David tried to follow Danny’s lead, moving to the beat of the music blaring from the overhead speakers. It wasn’t anything like what he used to listen to, and David highly doubted he’d ever acquire a taste for techno music, but it was easy enough to dance (or in his case, flail awkwardly) to.

It was actually kind of fun, once he stopped worrying so much about what he must look like. He found himself laughing breathlessly as Danny and Ramiele pulled off one crazy dance move after another, and averting his eyes whenever he caught sight of Miley, um, doing that hip thing she seemed so fond of. He didn’t even flinch whenever Jordin caught his arm, the two of them moving their hips in time and giggling whenever they stumbled into one of the closely packed dancers around them. He felt silly and a little warm and remarkably unselfconscious for once, and as he lost himself in the music, feeling the heavy beat vibrate through the floor and into his legs, David made a mental note to thank Cook later, for encouraging him to get out. 

He hoped the older man was doing okay; the crowd was so thick it was almost impossible to keep even one part of your body from touching someone else’s, and he didn’t like the thought of Cook chancing any unintentional touching just so David could hang out with his friends for a night.

The colorful lights were more than bright enough to illuminate most of the club, and David took a moment to glance around, trying to figure out where Cook had gone off to. It didn’t take him long to find the rocker, and David breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted Cook’s familiar figure over Jordin’s shoulder. 

The older man was leaning against the wall over by the bar, his arms crossed over his chest. One boot was propped against the wall, and David could see Cook’s eyes trailing over the crowd. He looked… like he belonged, was the first thought that flitted through David’s head. Like he was totally at home in this kind of atmosphere.

David didn’t doubt that in the slightest; he could picture Cook going to bars, or clubs, and attracting the attention of the entire room as soon as he stepped inside. He’d always thought Cook had this sense of… of presence, like, as soon as he entered a room, you knew it. He wouldn’t feel self-conscious at all, David knew. He’d probably hang out at the bar and watch the dancers like he was now, and then… then maybe he would see someone he liked, like one of the pretty girls dancing near David, with their wide, dark-lined eyes and glossy hair, short skirts twirling around their thighs as they danced. Or maybe he’d like someone like Jordin, who was tall and long-haired and grinning like she was having the time of her life, her laugh bright and loud. 

He hadn’t planned to think of it, didn’t even know why the thought entered his head in the first place, but that night Cook had told him about came back to him, the one in Omaha. 

“I promise I didn’t have any sort of torrid designs on all the guys in my band, okay,” he’d said. “I’m just a, uh, a really affectionate drunk, and gender doesn’t really factor in to my thought process whenever I’m in that state.”

So, so maybe Cook wouldn’t go for a girl at all. If he’d had a few drinks (or even if he hadn’t, David couldn’t help but think) maybe he’d see a guy he liked instead.

David wondered what Cook would do, then, if he’d keep his eye on that person, wait until they noticed and came to him (because how could they not?), or if Cook would go to them first, leave his drink at the bar and meld seamlessly into the crowd, until he was right behind whoever he’d had his eye on, and then –

“David, you okay?” Jordin’s voice was raised to be heard over the din, and David jerked his gaze away from Cook (how long had he been staring?) to nod his head. If there was a desperate tinge to his hurried, “I’m okay!” Jordin didn’t say anything about it.

“You stopped dancing!” she laughed, and David quickly started moving again, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks. What had he just been doing? Better yet, what had he just been _thinking_? It wasn’t any of his business what sort of… whatever Cook got up to in bars, or clubs, or anything of the sort. He had no right to be thinking about stuff like that, anyway. He told himself that he had just let his mind run away with him, that was all. It wasn’t strange, really, to wonder about that stuff. Right?

He can’t help but shoot glances at the older man every once in a while, seemingly unable to keep his eyes off of Cook for very long despite his unease at the path his thoughts had been taking just moments before. It was distracting, the way he felt drawn to the rocker. He told himself it was just because he wanted to keep Cook in sight, wanted to make sure nothing happened. He was just being cautious.

That didn’t explain the weird feeling in his stomach when Cook noticed him staring; the older man smiled and raised a hand to wave at him, and David ducked his head, feeling warm for no reason whatsoever.

He leaned in so that he could speak to Jordin without shouting, saying, “Um, I think I’m gonna – “ and pointing over at the bar. 

She asked if he wanted her to come with her, but David shook his head in the negative. “I’ll be back in a minute!” he said, and then ducked as smoothly as he could out of the crowded press of bodies on the dance floor. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief as he made it over to the bar without incident, asking the bartender for a glass of water. He leaned against the counter as he sipped from the glass, the water a relief against his parched throat (he hadn’t danced in ages, not since he was younger; he’d forgotten how physically draining it could be). The collar of his shirt was sticking a little uncomfortably to the back of his neck, his heart thumping along to the beat of the music. 

He wasn’t even aware that someone had approached him until a clear, feminine voice said, “Hi there.”

David turned his head to see a girl who didn’t look much older than him, dark hair spilling in waves over her shoulders. “Um, hi,” he said, straightening up so he wasn’t slumped over the bar. 

“I saw you dancing,” she continued, her lips curled into a smile. “You’re really good.”

David laughed before he could stifle it. “Oh gosh, sorry! That was rude of me. I just – I’m kind of horrible? At dancing? But thanks.”

If anything, the girl’s smile only broadened. “I’m Demi.” She held out her hand, the nails a bright purple, and David slipped his own into her’s.

“David,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

They talked for a little while; apparently Demi was visiting a friend for the week (“She kind of ditched me once her boyfriend showed up,” she’d said with a laugh; David had found that kind of rude, but Demi didn’t seem upset by it. Apparently she’d expected it?) 

She was nice enough, and David felt at ease in her presence, but he noticed that she kind of kept, um, looking at him? In an obvious sort of way, like she wanted him to notice. And she kept touching his arm, brief flashes of contact that weren’t enough to startle him, or unsettle him, just enough to make him aware of her skin against his before she pulled away.

And it wasn’t – it wasn’t _bad_ , exactly. Demi was pretty, and funny, and seemed to enjoy talking to him. She was making it pretty clear that she liked him – her flirtatious glances and those occasional touches were more than enough evidence of that.

Still, David couldn’t help but think of Cook. 

It was stupid, of course, because a pretty girl flirting with him had absolutely nothing to do with David Cook. At least, it shouldn’t have. And yet David found himself glancing over toward the wall by the bar anyway, back to where he’d last seen the older man.

Sure enough, Cook was still there, only he wasn’t looking into the crowd, his eyes trailing over the men and women on the dance floor.

He was looking at David.

David jerked a little, couldn’t help it, and had to quickly assure Demi that nothing was wrong when her brows furrowed together with concern. She started talking about… something, David wasn’t sure what. He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes kept going back to Cook.

The rocker looked… well, he didn’t look happy, at all. There was a thunderous expression on his face, his eyes dark and narrowed, his lips settled into a thin line. His arms were still crossed over his chest, but instead of appearing nonchalant like he had been, he just looked angry.

David thought he’d done something, otherwise why would Cook be looking at him like that? But the longer he watched the older man, the longer he followed the line of Cook’s gaze, the sooner David realized that Cook wasn’t even looking at him; he was looking at _Demi_.

That didn’t even make sense, though – why would Cook be angry at her? He didn’t even know her! David figured he must just be imagining things, and he tried waving at Cook when Demi wasn’t looking, seeing if he could get a reaction. Cook didn’t even glance his way, though; he was staring at Demi as she ordered a drink from the bartender, his face stony.

What in the world was going on?

“Um, I’m going to run to the restroom,” he told Demi, ducking away after she nodded him on, her airy, “I’ll be here when you get back!” trailing in one ear and out the other as he made his way over to Cook.

“Come with me,” he hissed as soon as he got close enough, barely waiting for Cook’s gaze to swing over to him (his eyes dark and clouded and David had _no idea_ what was going on) before he moved toward the short hallway that led to the bathrooms, pushing through the door marked ‘Mens.’

Thankfully it was a single use only restroom; David locked the door as soon as Cook followed him in, turning to face the older man with his brows raised.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his hands finding their way to his hips. 

Cook’s face was carefully blank. He looked as if he had no idea what David was talking about. “What do mean what’s wrong?” he returned. “Why’d you ask me to follow you?”

“I asked you to follow me because you were mad!” Why was Cook acting oblivious all of a sudden? David had seen his face, okay. 

Cook scoffed. “I wasn’t mad,” he said, and made to move toward the door. “Your friends are probably wondering where you are, c’mon – “

David quickly slid into the space between Cook’s body and the door, blocking the way. “Cook, seriously, what’s wrong with you? Do you… do you know Demi, or something?”

“Is that her name?” Cook muttered, a sour twist to his mouth, and David gaped. “No, I don’t know her.”

“Then why were you looking at her like that?” David demanded. When Cook averted his eyes, his brows scrunched together, David didn’t know what to do with the rush of… he didn’t even know – confusion, mostly, because he had _no idea_ what was going on, and anger, because Demi hadn’t done anything to warrant the way Cook had been looking at her out there. 

“I wasn’t looking at her in any way,” Cook said, and made to move toward the door again. “She’s waiting for you, right? Couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off you when you were out there. Or her hands.” 

David’s mouth hung open. The anger he’d been feeling on behalf of Demi kind of sputtered and died in the wake of realization that rushed over him after Cook’s words had stopped reverberating in his head. He’d never heard Cook, usually so put together, so much older and more mature, sound as petulant as he’d just done. Cook couldn’t even look at him, either! He kept staring over David’s shoulder or off to the side, never directly at him, and that, coupled with the way Cook had basically been staring Demi down just a few moments ago, led to a conclusion that David couldn’t even begin to process.

There was just no way Cook was –

“Jealous!” David blurted, and at Cook’s wide-eyed stare, nearly shouted out the rest. “You were jealous!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noticed two months had passed since I last posted a chapter (yikes!) and immediately set to work finishing this one. Sorry for the wait! This chapter is mostly introspective!Cook, with an ending that hopefully won’t get me killed, haha.

Danny was a little wobbly on his feet, leaning against David’s shoulder and laughing about something as they walked down the street. All of the other girls save Ramiele had been dropped off already, and she stuck close to Danny’s other side, ready to steady him in case he toppled over.

Cook lingered behind the trio as they made their way through the city. He moved in and out of the evening crowd without a second thought, barely listening to Danny’s chatter or Ramiele’s girlish laughter. Not even David’s voice, soft and breathy in response to something one of his companions had said, could penetrate the haze that had settled over Cook’s mind ever since David had ushered him into that bathroom at the club. 

“ _You were jealous!_ ”

David’s accusation was all he could hear, repeating over and over again in his head. He’d been saved from having to reply by Danny banging on the door and calling David back to the dance floor, and Cook had ducked through the door and to a deserted corner of the club before David could try and stop him. It was a cowardly move, but at the moment Cook hadn’t cared.

Had he been jealous? 

The rational part of his mind said no, that there had been nothing to be jealous _of_. He’d been happy for David, happy that the younger man had seemed to be having a good time, happy that he’d finally given his friends a chance. 

When that girl had first approached him, Cook hadn’t really been surprised. David was an attractive guy, and Cook had noticed more than a few appreciative glances in his direction that night. That outfit of his had only helped to emphasize the surprisingly broad length of his back and the width of his shoulders, and the slender neck and utterly distracting hollow of his throat revealed by the low neckline had even given Cook pause.

And David was a catch, of that much Cook knew without doubt. He was sweet and funny (even without meaning to be), and quite possibly the nicest guy (the nicest _person_ ) Cook had ever met. Any girl would be lucky to catch his eye.

So when that girl – Demi, and Cook had to restrain himself from scowling even as he thought her name, what the fuck – had approached David at the bar, Cook hadn’t been surprised.

What _was_ surprising was the way he had reacted to it. To her. 

As he’d watched the two of them talk, Demi’s interest more than apparent in the way she angled her body toward David’s, the casual touches she placed on his arm, and the way she tilted her head coquettishly as they spoke, something sour had curdled in Cook’s stomach. He’d tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the whole scene, actually, but even as his eyes had trailed over the crowd, he’d always find his gaze traveling back to the bar, almost like he couldn’t help but see how the whole thing would unfold.

He hadn’t understood why he felt the way he did – hell, he _still_ didn’t – but the longer he watched Demi flirt with David, the longer he watched David not actively reject her advances, the worse Cook felt, that sour sensation building in his stomach until he felt sick from it.

It hadn’t made any sense; this was what he’d hoped would happen when he’d encouraged David to accept Danny’s invitation. He’d wanted David to have fun, to meet people, to let loose for once. He should have felt vindicated, watching David getting along so well with a pretty girl, a pretty girl who obviously liked him, but instead –

Instead he’d felt angry and unhappy and _envious_ – not of David, which might have made sense, but of _Demi_.

_Shit_.

There was something wrong with him. There was seriously something fucked up in his head, for him to have developed some… some fucking _crush_ on the kid he was supposed to be helping.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? That was the reason he’d felt so goddamn awful about Demi, because he’d been _jealous_ of the attention she was giving David, the way she touched him.

Cook could admit to harboring an attraction to David, but it was the sort of thing that he could take notice of and easily dismiss. It didn’t mean anything.

Getting jealous just because some girl paid David some attention – that was different. _That_ meant something.

_It means you’re a goddamn idiot_ , he thought to himself, scowling as he bypassed an inebriated couple stumbling down the sidewalk with their arms entangled. _You can’t have a thing for David. It’s ridiculous. It’s probably just… just a contact crush, that’s all. You’ve spent the past month practically glued to the guy’s hip, it would make sense_.

David was the only point of contact that Cook had, after all; he couldn’t talk to anyone else, couldn’t even leave David’s side for the most part. He’d been around the guy constantly for a month now; it would make sense that he was confusing feelings of attraction and desire for something that could be explained away as… as misplaced loneliness or something. 

_That’s what it is_ , he thought, glancing up just in time to catch David’s eye before the younger man quickly turned away, Cook’s heart jumping in his chest even at the brief contact. _Shit. That’s what it has to be_.

It couldn’t be anything else.

//

Cook brooded the entire walk home, through David and Danny dropping Ramiele off at her door and even through the duo’s somewhat perilous trek to David’s apartment, Danny continuing to cling to David’s shoulder lest he fall face-first to the ground.

Instead of trailing behind the two as they climbed the stairs, a venture that was sure to take a while thanks to Danny’s inebriated state, Cook made his own way to the apartment above, appreciating the cool, dark emptiness of the place while he had the chance, knowing that as soon as David got Danny settled he would surely try and continue the conversation they’d left off in the bathroom.

Not for the first time since leaving the club, Cook kicked himself once again for even encouraging David to go out at all. 

He’d needed it, though; hell, they both had. They’d needed the distraction to keep their minds off of that visit to the hospital and the conversations with Neal afterward.

Cook had rattled off Neal’s number not long after they’d left the lobby and watched David send off the resultant brief text – just a simple hello and reiteration of who was contacting him – with his heart in his throat. He knew Neal was still suspicious of David, just as he knew his guitarist wouldn’t really believe David until he had some concrete evidence. Cook didn’t blame him; he was actually surprised Neal had given David the time to speak his mind at all, but grateful nonetheless for the chance.

Neal hadn’t contacted David very much since then, only once or twice to tell him he would let David know when they could meet next. He wanted to wait until Cook’s room was empty, until Andrew and Beth weren’t around to ask questions. What they would do once they actually got there, Cook still had no idea. 

He was afraid, too, of what would happen. Seeing himself in that bed, hooked up to all those machines… What would that do to him? It was one thing to imagine it, to entertain the thought of standing there at the bedside and looking down on his own face, but to witness the reality of it, to see firsthand the effects of the crash when all he really had was still just a vague memory of it was something else entirely. 

The sound of David’s key in the lock scattered all thoughts of hospitals and Neal from his mind, bringing Cook’s focus back to the matter at hand. He didn’t know what to expect, not really. He wasn’t even sure that David would try and bring up the subject of their last conversation. A part of him hoped the younger man would just drop it, because there was no way in hell that Cook would be able to explain the way he’d acted (or the way he was feeling, for that matter) to David, not when he didn’t even understand it himself.

David didn’t even glance at him as he guided Danny into the apartment, pausing to shut and lock the door before moving toward the couch.

“Here you go, Danny,” he was saying, his voice soft as he settled Danny on the cushions, pausing to gently tug off his shoes and jacket. Danny flopped dramatically on his side as soon as the articles were removed, curling his legs up and shooting David a gratified, somewhat sloppy smile.

“Have I mentioned what a totally awesome friend you are?” he asked, his voice only slurring a little. David patted his knee as he moved to tug the folded quit off the back of the couch, spreading it over Danny’s prone form.

“A few times,” he said, smiling. “Go to sleep, okay? I’ll walk you home in the morning.”

“My hero~” Danny called sleepily, waving a hand in David’s direction before turning over and closing his eyes. In moments light snores filtered from underneath the quilt.

Cook lingered by the doorway as David ducked into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of pills – aspirin, Cook guessed – and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He left both on the coffee table in full view of its sleeping occupant. It was the kind of considerate gesture that Cook had come to expect from David, and it only served to reiterate how truly _good_ David was, how he enjoyed taking care of people, how generous he was with everyone he came into contact with. Cook could only hope that David’s generosity extended to uninvited houseguests who had wildly inappropriate feelings for him. 

He expected David to enter his bedroom then, to shut the door like he always did and leave Cook alone in the living room (save one snoring occupant who wouldn’t know Cook was there, anyway). So familiar was the routine that he nearly didn’t notice when David paused by the doorway to his bedroom and called Cook’s name.

“Huh?” Cook glanced at the younger man, sure he’d misheard, but David’s eyes were clear and steady on him, and his voice didn’t waver when he spoke.

“I said you can stay in here tonight,” he said, and with the way his body was angled, one foot toeing the line between the living room and his bedroom, there was no mistaking which room he was referring to.

Cook gawked for a moment, unsure of how to respond other than to ask, “You sure? I can just stay out here – “ It wasn’t like he would disturb Danny, and honestly Cook was looking forward to a few hours alone, hoping for the time to clear his head and get some perspective on things.

“I’m sure,” David said, and, “We need to talk, you know?”

He entered his bedroom before Cook could respond, though he had a feeling that David had planned it that way. Still Cook lingered, a part of him screaming to get out of there, to run, because once he stepped into that room something was going to change, he was going to have to confront whatever it was that he felt for David, whatever it was that had made his stomach clench and his ire rise as he’d watched David and that girl.

David’s voice entreating him to enter, his voice a little hesitant as he called out Cook’s name, took the decision from his hands. 

He took a deep breath before he crossed the threshold, psyching himself up for the no doubt awkward conversation that was to follow, and – at David’s quiet urging – slowly shut the door.

For a moment they both just stood there, immobile, Cook by the door and David by the bed. The atmosphere was tense and charged around them, and Cook felt pretty fucking stupid the way he was nearly hugging the door, but he also felt like he should keep some distance between them, that any hint of closeness would prove to be too much of a distraction.

At a loss as to how to start a conversation himself, Cook took the time to study David’s bedroom instead. It was the first chance he’d truly had to do such a thing; the last two times he’d been in there for any length of time had both been brief. The décor was pretty simple, just a few photos here and there on the walls, shots of David with his parents and his siblings. The bed was neatly made, the covers a navy blue, and there was a desk and a bookcase against the opposite wall. Cook felt his lips twitch as he noticed the stuffed animal sitting next to David’s laptop on the desk, a grey and white creature with a huge grin that reminded him of David’s own beaming smile. 

“It’s Totoro,” David said, noticing Cook’s stare. “He’s from a movie. Um, my sisters got it for me.”

“It’s cute,” Cook said, feeling like an idiot even as the words left his mouth. Christ, this was awkward. It was the first time since those first tenuous days of his arrival that Cook truly had no idea what to say to David.

David, it seemed, didn’t suffer from such a setback. “Are you going to tell me what that was about, in the club?” 

_Fuck_ , he thought, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, a familiar nervous gesture. _Straight to the point, huh?_ He shot a quick glance at David before turning away, figuring he might as well be honest. Well, as honest as he _could_ be, considering how fucking confused he still was about the whole thing. “I don’t really know what to say, David.” It was the truth, at any rate, though it felt like a cop-out even to Cook.

He could tell it felt the same way to David by the way the younger man shook his head. “Take your time,” he said, moving to sit on the edge of his bed, fingers curling loosely over his knees. “I’ve got all night.”

It was the kind of bold statement that Cook wouldn’t have expected from David, and he stood there for a while, words jumbling uselessly in his throat at the reversal of roles, David calm and collected while Cook was a stuttering, stumbling mess. All the while David waited patiently, seemingly undisturbed by Cook’s total inability to get a single fucking word out.

“Would it help,” David said eventually, taking pity on him, “if I asked you a question first?”

Cook weakly nodded his head. 

“Okay. Were you jealous of me when I was talking to Demi?”

Shit, he didn’t pull any punches, did he? Cook rubbed a hand over his mouth, mutely shaking his head before he started feeling like a kid who’d gotten caught stealing cookies from the jar. _Grow up, damn it_. “No,” he said, his voice gruff. “I wasn’t jealous of you.”

David nodded, like he’d expected such an answer. “Okay. What about Demi? Were you jealous of her?”

“Fuck, David, I – “ Cook started pacing, agitation clear in every step that he took. He felt completely out of his element here, and it was starting to piss him off. “Just stop, okay? What is it that you even want me to say here?”

David’s gaze was unwavering, his voice resolute. “I want you to tell me the truth, Cook.”

Cook threw his hands up. _Fuck it_. “I was, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” He slumped beside David on the bed in lieu of anywhere else to sit, uncaring at that point about his previous insistence to keep some distance between them, though he still couldn’t bring himself to look David in the face. “I was fucking jealous, alright?”

For a moment David was silent. Cook could see his chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye, could hear him breathing, but no words passed between them.

“Listen,” Cook started, unsure of what he should say, what he _could_ say, but determined to try nonetheless. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I didn’t mean to ruin your night or make you feel uncomfortable or – “

“Cook, no, stop.” David’s voice, insistent, drew Cook’s gaze away from his own knees and to the other man’s face. He wasn’t prepared for the way David was looking at him, his bright eyes trained unerringly on Cook’s face, his expression earnest. “You didn’t ruin anything, I wasn’t trying to… to make you feel bad or anything. I – “ Cook watched in fascination as David’s cheeks and nose flushed a vibrant shade of red, and his breath caught in his throat as David met his eyes. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t?” Cook asked, his disbelief apparent in the tone of his voice, the wideness of his eyes. Something that felt dangerously like hope rushed through him, though what he was hoping for, Cook honestly had no idea.

David shook his head. “No, I… Do you know why? Why you were jealous, I mean?”

Cook swallowed, trying to wet a mouth gone dry. “I… David, I really don’t know if this is – “ 

“Please, Cook?” David was leaning closer, tilting his head so that Cook couldn’t escape his gaze. “It’s okay, really, If you – Do you… ?” It should have been funny, the way they were both struggling for words, tip-toeing around the things they needed to say, but all Cook felt was this strange mix of fear and anticipation and helplessness that he had no idea how to wade through. 

“I think I do,” he said eventually, helplessly, and watched as a flood of emotions washed over David’s face – fear and something like relief, and then, straight on its heels, a tentative smile that dimpled David’s cheeks, no less sincere for its hesitance.

For a moment it seemed like they were once again at a loss for words, though the air felt clearer between them now (which made absolutely no sense, Cook conceded, considering they’d spent the entire conversation talking in half-completed sentences). He could tell that David wanted to say _something_ , though, by the way his eyes darted to and away from Cook’s face, the way his fingers plucked relentlessly at the fabric of his jeans.

Cook was about to put him out of his misery, to gently encourage him to speak his mind, but in the end it wasn’t needed. 

David visibly steeled himself, chewing nervously at his bottom lip for a moment, but his voice was clear when he said, “I think you should touch me.” 

Cook’s head jerked toward David so quickly he might as well have given himself whiplash. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open, because David hadn’t just… 

“What’d you say?” he asked, voice so low it almost disappeared. Cook cleared his throat, tried again. “Did you just – ?”

David holding his palm out, slender fingers spread slightly, stopped Cook’s words in his throat. David’s appearance was calm and unruffled, patient, but Cook could see the way his hand shook, just a little. 

His voice didn’t waver when he spoke, though, and Cook tried not to tremble himself at the sound of it, breathy and a little hushed, but steady all the same. “Cook, I think you should touch me.”


	14. Chapter 14

David was uncomfortably aware of how loud his heart was beating; he could feel the strength of his pulse in his throat as each second ticked by into minutes and yet Cook still had not said anything.

The rocker was just sitting there with his eyes wide and his lips parted, staring at David like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. David could hardly believe what he’d said himself, but Cook’s silence was nerve-wracking. The longer it took him to respond, the less sure of himself David became. Nervous energy skittered through his body with nowhere to go; his fingers longed to fidget with his sleeves or the comforter, and his toes were moments away from tapping nervously on the floor. He forced himself to keep still, to wait, not saying a word but keeping his gaze steady on Cook, his palm outstretched even while his mind raced.

 _I think you should touch me_. Oh gosh, what had he been thinking, saying something like that? He wasn’t even sure if what he and Cook wanted was the same thing, thanks in part to their stuttered conversation a few moments ago that had barely revealed anything. Cook had admitted to being jealous, and that meant something important, but he’d never actually come out and said that he wanted anything to happen between them because of it.

David wasn’t even really sure what _he_ wanted, either, only that the thought of Cook possibly having feelings for him had eaten at him ever since their conversation in that bathroom.

After Danny had interrupted them and Cook had fled, David had barely been able to focus on his friends or on Demi, who had ended up joining them at their table even though David couldn’t remember asking her to. He had a feeling Danny had had something to do with that, if the sly looks that he had sent David for the rest of the night were any indication. He must have seen them talking at the bar and assumed – well.

It wasn’t as though David hadn’t enjoyed Demi’s company, and he’d been more than happy to introduce her to his friends, but he’d been so hopelessly distracted by the confrontation with Cook that he had found it hard to focus on anything else for the rest of the night. He knew he hadn’t made for very good company, if the disappointed looks Demi kept sending him were anything to go by (as well as Danny’s not entirely subtle kicks under the table), and he’d felt so bad about it that he hadn’t put up much of a protest when Demi had asked for his number later on.

Watching Cook watch him now, though, David had a feeling nothing would ever come of Demi’s innocent flirtation. Not on his end, anyway, not when he was so clearly already interested in someone else.

And it _was_ clear, now that Cook’s confession had opened David’s eyes to the possibility. He found himself assailed with all of these memories, moments where he’d found himself thinking about Cook in ways that weren’t strictly platonic, moments where he’d appreciated the curve of Cook’s smile or the throaty sound of his laugh, moments where he’d wanted to get close to him in some way, to touch him, even though he had always assumed those impulses were brought on by his desire to offer comfort and nothing else.

He thought of that moment in the club, when he’d been dancing with Jordin and noticed Cook watching the crowd, how he’d wondered what Cook would do if someone caught his eye, and David’s breath caught in his throat. He’d been _admiring_ Cook, he knew that now, and he’d been doing it for a while.

Oh gosh, there was something wrong with him. How could he have a, a _crush_ on Cook? Their situation was strange enough, everything from their first meeting to the beginning of their tenuous friendship was unconventional at best and unbelievable at most, and for David to want anything more was just –

It was crazy! Cook was a _rockstar_ , and famous, and had thousands of people screaming his name on a daily basis. If it weren’t for the peculiar set of circumstances that had forced them together he never would have given David a second look, let alone actually consider the idea of being with him.

But –

Cook had been jealous of Demi.

In the end, wasn’t that all of the proof David needed, that Cook felt the same way?

It was surprising, yes. Terrifying, too. But beneath the fear there was something else, something that made it possible for David to sit there and wait while Cook processed his words.

He didn’t know what Cook touching him would prove; the request had come out of his mouth with very little input from David’s brain. As soon as he’d said them though, David had known that they were the right words, and the moment they’d left his mouth he’d felt freer for it, lighter, like he had been waiting for a long time to get them out.

He had no idea what would happen next. He wasn’t sure if there would be a repeat of the first and only time they’d touched or what he would do if that happened again. All David really knew was that he wanted this, needed it, and despite the fact that fear was starting to make his hands shake and butterflies had taken flight in the pit of his stomach, he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

And all of it – the thoughts running rampant through his head, the fear and confusion and nervous anticipation roiling in his gut – vanished in the wake of Cook’s voice, soft and close and just as hesitant as David felt.

“Are you sure?” Cook was staring at David’s palm, his own fingers twitching slightly in his lap, and David swallowed, nodding without having to give the question any thought.

“I’m sure,” he said, his voice wavering a little, not with fear but with anticipation. He held his breath as Cook moved closer, turning towards him, and didn’t let it out until Cook’s palm was hovering a few scant inches away from his.

“Do you trust me?” Cook asked, his gaze trained on David’s face, and David didn’t have to think about it, the answer was an obvious one. He nodded, silently urging Cook to breach the gap between their hands, to _move_.

It wasn’t until David felt the first brief brush of fingertips against his that he noticed he’d closed his eyes. He blinked them open, his vision immediately filled with both the sight of Cook’s slightly startled face and their hands, Cook’s pressed lightly to his. They were _touching_.

David could actually _feel_ it, the warmth of Cook’s palm and the calluses on his fingers, and for a second he sat there frozen, hardly daring to move.

Cook let out a breathless laugh, and David could feel his hand shaking. “You can feel that?” he asked, a disbelieving smile on his face. His eyes were bright, awed, and David laughed softly, giddily, his own eyes a little wet as he nodded.

“How are you – ?” he started, his fingers moving slightly against Cook’s, their skin sliding warmly against each other. A shudder worked its way down his spine.

Cook shrugged his shoulders. His gaze hadn’t wavered from their touching hands. “I’ve been practicing. I didn’t know it would work, but I hoped – “ He broke off, rubbing his free hand over his face. His eyes were gleaming. “I haven’t touched anyone in over a month,” he rasped. “And now I’m touching _you_. Shit, David.”

“Don’t curse,” David breathed, his heart flipping at Cook’s watery laugh. “Can we… can we get closer, or… ?” His face heated the moment the words left his mouth, but he didn’t stumble or try to take them back. He wanted closeness, if it was possible, if it was safe.

Cook swallowed, his throat working absently as he stared at their joined hands, but after a moment he nodded, his voice hoarse as he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I – we can do that,” and curled their fingers together.

David let out a breath at the sensation, trembling as Cook’s fingertips rubbed lightly across his knuckles. Cook’s hands were bigger than his, broader, and to feel one curled completely around his own, solid and warm and _real_ , made something hot and shivery spark to life in David’s gut.

He was so focused on the sensation of Cook’s hand entwined with his that he didn’t notice Cook moving, not until the rocker’s other hand pressed lightly against his cheek. He breathed in sharply, staring at Cook’s face, so much closer than it had ever been before, close enough that he could see the threads of gold in Cook’s hazel eyes, the way his beard was a lighter shade of auburn than his hair.

He let out his breath in a shaky exhalation as Cook’s fingers slid lightly over his skin, until Cook was cradling David’s cheek in the palm of his hand. He was so _warm_ , and so close, and David’s eyes slip closed of their own accord as he relished in the new sensations and how they were affecting him, his palms tingling and his heart racing.

“You okay?” Cook’s voice was low and rough, and David nodded, tilting his head further into the caress. He felt like all of his words had dried up; all he could do was feel – feel Cook’s rough palm against his cheek and the tips of blunt nails pressing lightly against the soft skin behind his ear. He’d never had someone touch him this way, with purpose, with _intent_ ; he’d made sure no one had ever had a chance, and to let that control go, to give it up to Cook like this, filled him with a sense of triumph, of pride, and something like relief.

“David?” Cook’s breath fanned over his lips, and David opened his eyes, swallowing hard as he saw how close they were. Cook’s eyes darted to his lips and back, and David knew what he was going to ask even before the words left his mouth. “Can I… ?”

David didn’t need to hear the rest; again, the answer was an obvious one. “ _Yes_ ,” he breathed, and made a noise like a sigh and a sob all at once when Cook’s lips touched his for the first time.

It was soft, at first, and chaste, simple pressure and shared breath before Cook pulled back, like he was testing the waters before diving in. David’s mouth tingled even at the brief contact, and he started to say something, to ask if they could – maybe? But again Cook rendered his words useless, leaning in to press another kiss to David’s lips, longer than the last, and another, and another, until David lost count of how many times their lips had met, until the scratch of Cook’s beard against his skin was no longer ticklish but sent shivers through his frame instead.

Eventually Cook let go of his hand, curling his own around David’s other cheek so he could pull him closer, and David melted at the contact, making a soft, wondering sound as Cook continued to kiss him, their lips turning soft and slick. His hands flailed, unsure where to go; he wanted to touch Cook back, but he wasn’t sure if he could, if that was okay, or –

“I can hear you thinking,” Cook rumbled against his mouth, and David knew without having to look (when had he closed his eyes again?) that the older man was smiling. “Stop thinking.”

Cook moved back in before David could respond, which was probably a good thing. His mind was blissfully free of anything to say other than the absolute truth, that with Cook touching him he could hardly think at all, and saying those words aloud – despite everything else he had confessed to that night – was way beyond the realm of his bravado.

So instead he lost himself in Cook’s kiss, letting the older man take control, letting him tilt David’s head so their noses didn’t mash together, so their lips slotted together perfectly, their kisses turning slick and hot and wet.

He only pulled back once to ask, breathlessly, “Can I, um?” while his hand hovered a few inches away from Cook’s.

Cook’s answering, “Yeah,” was nearly lost in another kiss; he pressed his forehead to David’s afterward, catching his breath. His eyes were bright, his smile a little, um, naughty, when he told David, “You can touch.”

David blushed – he couldn’t help it! And Cook totally knew what he was doing, saying stuff like that. Sure enough, Cook laughed at the look on his face, his breath warm against David’s lips, and before he could say something to embarrass David further (which was totally a possibility!) David moved forward on his own, kissing Cook softly. He waited until Cook was good and distracted, making these low noises against David’s mouth that were kind of, um, amazing, before David pressed his teeth to Cook’s bottom lip, sinking in and kind of, well, nibbling.

Cook grunted, breathing out a muffled curse as he pulled back. David almost apologized, until he saw the look on Cook’s face, shocked and a little surprised, like David had done something totally unexpected. He looked impressed.

“Damn, Archuleta,” he said faintly, his lips curling into a grin as David flushed. “You’ve got _moves_.” His titled his head, adopting a wondering expression. “Since when have you had moves?”

Instead of acting offended (which he kind of thought Cook was expecting) David just laughed. “Since always?” he offered. He acted like he was about to pull away, saying, “If you didn’t like it I could always – “

Cook reeled him back in, kissing him hard, David’s hand twisting in the older man’s shirt totally without his consent. Cook’s tongue brushed against the seam of David’s lips before he pulled back, and he took in the dazed look on David’s face with a self-satisfied smirk. “You were saying?” he asked, but David was already moving back in.

They stopped trying to talk, after that.

//

“You look like you had a good night.”

David nearly spit out his mouthful of orange juice – he had a feeling Danny had planned it that way – and shot the other boy a look. They were both sitting at the kitchen table, breakfast steaming on the plates in front of them. Danny had woken up moaning about a headache and cried out piteously for food until David had caved in and made some for him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked casually (well, faux causally), taking a bite of his toast and pointedly not glancing in Cook’s direction. The back of his neck felt warm, and he knew the rocker was watching him.

Danny tsked. “Don’t play coy with me, David,” he said, leaning his chin on his hand as he bit into a piece of bacon. He waved his half-eaten bounty around as he talked, and David tried not to grimace. “Your face is red and you haven’t stopped smiling all morning. So spill.”

David shook his head. “There’s nothing to spill!” he insisted, coughing as Cook’s familiar smoky laughter echoed from across the room. “I’m just – I just feel good this morning, that’s all.” His skin warmed, remembering how he had fallen asleep the night before, his lips kiss swollen and red, and how Cook had swiped his thumb across them before telling David goodnight, his voice rough and a little hoarse.

Danny smirked. “I’ll bet you do,” he sing-songed. “And I’ll wager it has to do with a certain someone whose name starts with a D, am I right?”

David almost yelped, “How do you know about Cook?!” before he realized that Danny was talking about _Demi_. Oh gosh, this was going to be awkward.

“Um, that’s not really – “ he started, only to be cut off by Danny’s exuberant voice.

“I mean, I thought you’d blown it when you kept ignoring her last night, but apparently not. Lucky you.” He winked, and David kind of wanted to sink down into his chair and disappear into the floor.

“Danny, I’m not – I’m not interested in Demi,” he said, being as firm as he could so his friend wouldn’t get any more ideas. “Not like that, anyway.”

Danny pouted. “Well, why not?” he asked. “She was cute, right? And she was into you! I could tell!”

“Even so… “ David could see Cook out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the kitchen counter and watching him, a small smile on his lips that just, um, made David want to stare at his mouth. “I’m just not interested in being more than friends with her. So.”

Danny wilted, sighing gustily before biting into his toast, smearing jelly all over his fingers in the process. “I swear, David,” he said between bites, “One of these days I’m going to fix you up with someone, you just wait. You’re a catch, you know? You shouldn’t be alone all the time.”

“Um, thank you?” David appreciated the sentiment, but his mind was kind of stuck on _I’m going to fix you up with someone_ , which was. No. “Really, Danny, it’s – I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Danny waggled his eyebrows, and oh gosh, David knew what was coming. “I never said anything about a relationship. Maybe all you really need is to get lai – “

“Danny!” His voice came out in a high-pitched squeak; Danny erupted in laughter, waving his hand in a sign of surrender.

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” he said, his laughter dying down until he was grinning widely. “The offer still stands, though, if you ever change your mind!”

David opened his mouth to respond (something along the lines of _That’ll happen, um, never_ ) when a weight pressed against his shoulders, two arms (firm, tattooed) curling around his neck. Cook was leaning over him, his palms pressed flat to the table on either sides of David’s breakfast, and David held his breath, not daring to turn his head or make a sound unless Danny noticed.

“Is that what you need, David?” The words were spoken softly against his ear, and David’s entire body seized up only to erupt in a fit of shivering, a shudder working its way up and down his spine as Cook’s warmth and breath and voice washed over him. He felt Cook press a rough, scratchy kiss to his cheek, and another just under his ear, and he had to hide his shaking hands beneath the kitchen table, clenching his fingers around the seat so he wouldn’t do something rash.

He felt more than heard Cook’s laughter as the rocker moved away; it gusted against the shell of his ear, making him shiver.

“You cold or something?” Danny asked, brow raised, and David hurriedly stood up, not even bothering to gather his dishes before darting to his bedroom, calling out a rushed, “I’m gonna take the first shower!” over his shoulder.

He caught Cook’s eye before he shut the door, and the curve of the rocker’s smile stayed with him even after he was under the spray, replaying over and over again behind his closed eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a thousand apologies for taking so long (over a _year_ , how even?!) to get this chapter out. I can only say that school/work kind of obliterated my motivation, but I’m coming back to this fic with fresh eyes and have the next two chapters plotted out, so hopefully it won’t take me as long to update this time! Enjoy!

Cook lingered a few steps behind David and Danny, listening with half an ear as Danny gushed about the previous night and made plans for another night out the next weekend. 

David nodded along at appropriate intervals, though he spoke very little, and Cook could tell his mind was elsewhere. He had a feeling he knew why David was so distracted, and he grinned a little to himself as he recalled the look on the younger man’s face earlier that morning, after Cook had pressed up against his back and whispered throatily into his ear.

He couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed David’s reaction to his impromptu teasing, the way goosebumps had broken out along the bare skin of his arms and the way his face had flared red as he’d ducked – escaped, really – into the bathroom. Cook hadn’t planned to tease him like that, but Danny’s little comment had unknowingly opened the door to a whole hell of a lot of not-quite buried feelings that his and David’s little encounter last night had suddenly awakened, and before Cook knew it he’d been leaning over David and pressing those not entirely innocent kisses to his cheek and that spot just beneath his ear that he’d learned the night before made David shiver in all-too-pleasing way.

Cook swallowed, shaking his head a little to clear it of such heated thoughts. A quick glance up showed that they had apparently made it to Danny’s apartment in the midst of his distraction, and he waited as David saw his friend to the door, shaking his head in amusement as Danny pressed a smacking kiss to David’s cheek in farewell before ducking inside the building. 

Cook stuffed his hands in his pockets as he watched David turn and twist his scarf around his neck; the breeze had slipped it free of his throat, and Cook felt something warm burst to life in the vicinity of his chest at the sight of the younger man’s cold-flushed cheeks and red nose. _Christ, I really do have it bad_.

It was as if Cook’s thoughts had summoned his gaze, as David chose that moment to glance up and catch Cook’s eyes, his face freezing as if he’d forgotten that Cook was there, and then settling into a smile tinged with shyness and a little embarrassment. 

Cook grinned – he had a feeling David was once again remembering the events of that morning, or possibly reliving the memories from the night before, when they had spent nearly an hour trading soft, careful kisses, before Cook had gently disentangled himself from a hazy-eyed David and sent him to bed. He’d spent the rest of the night settled on the other side of the mattress, alternating between marveling at the turn the night had taken and watching David sleep, wondering what the next morning would bring. 

“He’s an interesting guy,” Cook said by way of breaking the silence, gesturing with his chin to the apartment complex that Danny had disappeared into. 

“Oh, Danny?” David looked a little surprised, as if Danny was the last thing on his mind and he was confused as to why Cook had even brought him up in the first place. “Mm, yeah.”

“Got some interesting ideas, too,” Cook continued, lips curling as David visibly startled, a streak of red stealing over his cheeks and nose as Danny’s teasing comment no doubt ran across both of their minds: _Maybe all you really need is to get laid_!

“I can’t believe he said that,” David murmured, rubbing his hand over his red face. He peeked at Cook through the gaps in his fingers, lips curling into a pout. “And I can’t believe _you_ did… did _that_ this morning, either.”

“Oh?” Cook pursed his lips, whistling innocently. “What’d I do?”

David didn’t bother to deign that with a response, just stared unamused at Cook until the older man laughed and dropped the subject. 

“So,” he asked instead, “Where to?” Usually David spent his Sundays off reading in the park or walking around the city, Cook a constant companion by his side. Cook figured today would be no different, content to follow in David’s footsteps and soak up the soft warmth of the morning sun before the air grew crisp and cold later in the evening.

When David failed to respond, Cook glanced at him quizzically, taking note of the fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of his sweater, a familiar nervous tic that Cook had long ago grown accustomed to. “David?” 

“Do you want to go see a movie?” It was said in a rush, as if David were afraid he wouldn’t be able to get the words out otherwise, and Cook watched as the tips of his ears heated under his gaze. Cook’s lips twitched.

“You asking me on a date, Archuleta?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as David flushed and glanced down at his feet, before squaring his shoulders and meeting Cook’s stare head on. Cook raised an eyebrow. _Well then. That’s new_.

“Yes,” David answered, his voice clear and sure, and something warm unfurled in Cook’s chest at the quiet confidence in that gaze. “I’m asking you on a date. If you want to – ?”

Cook could have been a teenager in the presence of the head cheerleader for all that his heart practically _throbbed_ at the invitation. He stepped aside, grinning to cover his reaction, and playfully invited David to, “Lead the way.”

//

They settled in the back of the movie theater, taking two seats in the middle of the row. It was still early enough that they were the only ones in attendance, and Cook applauded David’s foresight, glad that they wouldn’t have to worry about any prying eyes interrupting their date.

Shit. _Date_. Cook couldn’t believe that just the night before, he’d been burning with a jealously that terrified him, trying to deny what he knew to be true, that somewhere in the midst of the last crazy month his innocent attraction to David had morphed into something far deeper, far less manageable and far more terrifying, and now here he was, clustered in a dark theater with the younger man by his side, the memory of his kiss-swollen lips still fresh in Cook’s mind. 

Christ, he had no idea what he was doing, did he? At least he knew that David was in the same boat. It was clear in the way his eyes kept straying to Cook and then flitting away whenever Cook turned to catch him, the way his fingers fidgeted with the armrest or the straw of his soda during a lull in the movie, like his mind was on something other than the film playing out on screen.

Cook could certainly relate. He kept losing the thread of the story in lieu of glancing at David’s profile, the way the soft blue light from the screen illuminated the planes and angles of his face, the curve of his brow and nose, the bow of his full lips. 

Heat flushed through him as his eyes locked on those lips, remembering how they’d felt beneath his own the night before, soft and supple, clinging to his mouth each time they’d parted, retreated, and fallen back together. And the _sounds_ David had made – soft sighs whenever they pulled away, a breathy hum when Cook’s fingers had slipped into his hair, a shaky exhale whenever Cook’s hands had settled at his waist. 

_Fuck_. Cook turned back to the screen with a swallow, his belly and face warm at the memories, and barely resisted the urge to scowl at himself. This was ridiculous. He was in his thirties, for Christ’s sake, there was no reason for him to be getting all flustered and distracted like this, like a teenager who’d just gotten his first kiss.

But it was more than that, Cook knew. More than even the kisses he’d shared with David last night, it was the simple act of _contact_ that had made his heart pound in the first place, the simple pleasure of touching another person for the first time after being unable to for so long, feeling the warmth of someone else’s skin beneath his fingers and against his palm. And not just someone, but _David_ , who’d given him a second chance after Cook had fucked up so badly, who had called Cook out on his jealousy not with disgust in his eyes but _hope_ , who against all reason somehow felt the same for Cook as Cook did for David. 

Even now Cook couldn’t describe the potent mix of happiness and fear that had crashed over him when their hands had first touched, the sheer _relief_ of it: that it had worked, that it was happening at all, and that David had trusted him enough to try.

– that David trusted him _still_ , even after Cook had hurt him, and with a fierceness that no longer surprised Cook, he vowed not to abuse that trust ever again.

David shifted in his periphery, pulling Cook from his thoughts, and he looked over just in time to catch David sending another furtive glance his way. David quickly turned his eyes back to the screen once he realized he’d been caught, and in a fit of pique – mostly at how ridiculous they were both acting – Cook huffed out a breath and laid his hand palm up on the armrest.

He said nothing, but within a few moments there was the warmth of David’s palm sliding against his, the contact just as mesmerizing as the night before, and Cook’s lips curled into a grin as he slotted their fingers together.

He barely paid attention to the rest of the movie.

//

They stopped for a late lunch at a café close to the theater, and though their conversation was a bit one-sided with David unable to answer when there were other people around, Cook managed to fill up the silence with some of his best jokes and stories about his band, loving how hard David would try not to laugh before his lips would curl into a helpless grin and he would have to hide his face in his hands to suppress his mirth. Cook made a game of it, making certain embellishments to his tour stories and busting out the cheesiest lines he knew, until David was nearly slumped over his sandwich and giggling uncontrollably. A few of the other patrons raised their brows at him, and David looked mortified when he noticed the attention he’d gained, but all Cook did was smirk and wink at him, asking, “Something wrong, David?” like a smartass whenever David scowled at him.

He said nothing when they left and David stuffed a few generous bills in the tip jar, though the way his shoulders shook as he followed David out of the café spoke volumes. 

“You’re so cute, Archuleta,” he said, hands slipping into his pockets as he trotted down the street alongside his companion.

He watched as David’s face flushed an incredibly endearing shade of red; Cook could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek in order not to say anything back, and he grinned, brushing their hands together as they walked in the hopes of appeasing the younger man. 

They wound up back at David’s apartment by early afternoon; the air was growing colder, and David slipped his scarf further up over his neck and ears, which were beginning to pinken in the chill. 

“Do you want to – ?” he started, gesturing up to the roof. 

“You sure?” Cook tugged lightly at David’s scarf, the wool warm against his fingers from David’s body heat. “You won’t be too cold?”

David shook his head, tucking his chin into the folds of his scarf. He glanced up at Cook from beneath his lashes. “I’ll be alright. Just for a little while?”

Cook swallowed. Damn, but those eyes did funny things to his insides sometimes. “Sure thing,” he rasped, and followed after David.

The roof was deserted, as always, and they moved as one to their regular spot, settling cross-legged on the ground. The cold hardly registered to Cook; he could feel it, but it was in an abstract way, and he felt no discomfort even with his neck and arms bared to the late autumn chill. David was a different story, and Cook could feel him shivering slightly, even with the added benefit of his coat and scarf. 

Cook called his name softly, opening his arms without comment, and David smiled gratefully as he settled into Cook’s embrace, pressing up against his side and, after a moment of apparent indecision, leaning his head against Cook’s shoulder. 

For a few moments they said nothing, just watched as the cloudy grey skies shifted steadily toward shades of darker blue and red as the afternoon went on, but Cook was content with the silence. He kind of figured that David was processing everything that had happened, just as Cook had been doing throughout the day, and so he waited, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the curve of David’s shoulder as he watched the sun progress across the sky.

“Do you miss it?”

Cook glanced down at David’s dark hair. “Hmm? Miss what?”

“Music.” He couldn’t see David’s face, but nothing about the tone of his voice alarmed Cook. It was merely soft, a little curious, and though he was a little caught off guard by the question, Cook’s answer was immediate.

“Yeah.” He missed the rush of performing on stage with his friends, missed looking out into a crowd and seeing his fans singing along to his music, missed the familiar curve of his guitar under his hands. He felt lost without it, like he was stuck in some weird limbo. Hell, it had been ages since he had even sung a note, too aware of how it might affect David to take the risk, especially after he’d learned about David’s past. He felt like a heel now for all those times when he’d unconsciously hummed or sung a few bars around him, back before he knew about David’s issues with music. He wondered why David was bringing it up now. 

“Would you sing something?”

Cook blinked. David was pointedly not looking at him, his cheek tucked against Cook’s shoulder so his expression wasn’t visible, and for a moment Cook wavered, unsure what to think of David’s request. 

David seemed to sense his hesitance. “Please, Cook?” he asked, and Cook knew he couldn’t say no.

“What do you want me to sing?” he asked instead.

David’s answer was immediate. “Um, one of your songs? If you don’t mind – ”

Cook was quick to reassure him, “No, no, I don’t mind,” swallowing as he shifted on the ground and feeling unaccountably nervous for reasons he couldn’t name. He wracked his brain for the right song, cleared his throat and wished the anxiety building up in his gut would go away. He was suddenly glad that David was looking away from him, and seriously, what was he, thirteen? This was what he did for a living, for fuck’s sake.

“ _Here in this crowd I'm feeling all alone_ ,” he started, curling his arm tighter around David’s shoulder and locking his gaze onto the horizon, “ _Turn me around and point me back to home_.”

He could feel David tense up within the circle of his arms, but he kept going, trusting David to tell him to stop if he needed him to, some part of him knowing that David needed this if he’d been brave enough to ask for it. “ _I'm getting lost more every day, and I can't tear myself away, from the stars in my eyes with no light_.”

He felt a little choked up as he sang, “ _Here are my terms, have some faith in me, and I'll let you be who you need to be_ ,” realizing in that moment how _lost_ he’d felt without this, without music, that for the first time in a long time he felt more like himself, more like who he used to be, before the accident and the strange set of circumstances that had landed him here.

The same strange set of circumstances that he could no longer claim to regret, because as much as he missed his family and friends and the life he’d left behind (only for now, he thought fiercely, because he _would_ get them all back), he couldn’t ever regret meeting David, couldn’t ever regret being with him like this, feeling David’s shoulders relax beneath his hold as he continued to sing, listening to his soft, heavy breaths and soaking in the warmth of his body heat.

“ _The life that I knew is through, and I’m gonna need you more than ever. I’m alone in this crowded room, it’s like life on the moon_.” His voice trailed off, a little uncertainly, and he waited with baited breath for David to say or do something, anything to assure Cook that he’d done the right thing.

He heard David let out a slow, shaky breath, and glanced down in time to see the younger man raise his head from Cook’s shoulder and turn up to face him. Cook’s heart squeezed as he saw that David’s eyes were wet, but he was soothed by the smile on his face, small but undoubtedly genuine.

“Thank you, Cook.” David’s voice was like a balm, soft and heartfelt and everything Cook needed to hear in that moment. Unable to reply, feeling a lump forming in his throat, Cook simply pulled David close and pressed a soft kiss to his brow, hoping that it was enough.


End file.
